Driving in the wintry sun
My eyes all jingle jangle
Too much glare, I just can’t see
As I suffer the autumn angle
The frosty breeze begins to bite,
While shadows stretch and mingle,
The road ahead, a silver blade,
Cuts through the evening’s tingle.
grip the wheel with cautious care,
Through winter’s whispered wrangle,
Each mile a dance on glassy lace,
Too cold, to disentangle
I set off with a cheerful grin,
My journey home was set to begin.
But lo! The skies began to grumble,
And English clouds began to mumble.
The motorway turned into a stream,
Wipers flapping like a dream.
Cars ahead with brake lights glowing,
In a queue that’s barely flowing.
“Just an hour,” I told my mate,
But the rain had other plans for fate.
Junction signs looked like a blur,
And puddles played a splashing spur.
Lorries lurking, spraying spray,
My hair now frizzled, gone astray.
Radio drowned by thunder’s roar,
My mind started to gently snore.
A squirrel dashed—it’s bold, it’s keen,
Across the lane, a tiny scene.
I swerved, I braked, with trembling hands,
While traffic churned in soggy lands.
“Oh motorway gods, please hear my plea,
Let me home safe, with a cuppa tea!”
The rain kept falling, relentless, true,
As miles stretched on in dreary hue.
At last, I reached my humble place,
Rain-soaked, wind-blown, bedraggled face.
But now, with towel and dry embrace,
I laugh at this wet motorway race.
All the poems on this blog are now collaborations with CHAT GPT
It started with an apple
A core of cost reduction
Repeated in exactitude
Then placed in mass production
No longer made where once invented
In a penny piece parade
Allowing other interventions
In clear precision’s higher grade
No longer leading by initiative
believing money was the key
In superhighways overtaken
Where cash became the new debris
They're commemorating mad events
To reset a way of life
One can only wonder if
Achievements born of strife
In battles to reverse results
By removal in a flash
A constitutional explosion
In an expressive bible bash
Disaffected and disgruntled
In a huddle, made a plan
To change by fait-accompli
And monumental harmattan
What a bump it could have been
As the house and King departed
Though not to be, but well remembered
In many night skies, blazes started
