In our time together,
we are travelling in the heated car,
a violin concerto playing on the radio,
hills streaming with winter cold,
year-end fields worn down to seams,
a blazing quiff of distant dogwood,
burned meringue of snow on mountain tops.
We blurt past farms and cottages:
those whose era we share
are staring from net curtains
at a morning chill for milking
or for setting off to factories in the town,
their segments of road deserted.
It is like a childhood journey
of sleep and open-eyed surprise,
of hermetically sealed life
in the eternal present
before the final destination is reached.
We hold hands on the gear stick
and, at this moment,
fear for nothing except the future.
#Dennis_O’Driscoll