Creeping. Crawling.

Blacktop drawling.

Get in lane and join the queue,

Of a Monday morning,

Nose-to-tail,

Gridlocked M62.

Signs flashing

Overhead, warning “40’s

All you oughta”

Do, but your needle view

Shows you’re doing

Barely less than quarter.

There’s a wagon

Inching past you,

It’s ladder-laden high.

You wonder if each step

Carried onboard could

Reach up to the sky.

And peeping through the

Hedges as the sliproad

Slips on by,

The weathered, whiskered Colonel,

Grins out at you, cos that’s what he do,

That ol’ Southern, finger licking guy.

(M62 Motorway, Eastbound. 28.02.2022)