Thursday, November 24, 2016

Jan Dean # 23 West


I drove west towards the expressway
to check a memory from thirty years ago
and found most of it covered over
although enough was left to validate
my suspicions and decided to return
via a different route, trusting judgement
over maps or a navigation system
making my millionth mistake.
The unsealed areas should have warned
against it. Every so often colour intervened
into the drabness, by way of signs
stating the council’s position on those
who dump rubbish and it seemed
most travellers who took that route
neither read nor cared. The scrub
parched and bare would make
a marvellous location for an end
of the world movie. On my right
after the longest stretch, I noticed
enclosed metal uprights, perhaps
a sub-station, an indescribable
place to jolt the imagination. 

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