These Roads Run Like Rivers

In the dark winter night,

under thick tilted rain,

these slick black roads

run like rivers.

Around the roundabouts,

along the overlit carriageways,

in meanders and eddies

and torrents and trickles,

the highways and byways

of this mean little city

flow blind as water.

Cars and vans, vessels,

like ships in the night,

drift, flotsam and jetsam,

passing unknowing of

and unknown by each other.

Red, green and gold lights,

and blues and whites,

ripple the watered ways

in carnival show.

From east to west

and south to north

the roads flow, carrying you

to where you want to go,

to where you don’t want to be,

to everywhere in between,

and always, always,

as the rivers have ever run,

away from the mountains,

away from where you have come.