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Morning Highway


Snaking down Albion’s
grey asphalt spine
red rags swim
a stillborn sky,
scattershot victims,
in the blink of an eye
witness to the impassive
downcast vault

Around me?
The quick, the quicker
and the cadaverous,
of that murderous dark,
garnish the mortiferous blacktop.

A charnel feast
for inky pinioned
barnstorming beaks
to swoop and dip
and flee
that they too
don’t form part
of that mortal stew.

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