Something Dead In The Road

It was night. You were driving.
The road glistened with hard rain.
The windscreen wipers (yearning)
washed me half to sleep.

Twisting, a road led us
to a part of town unknown.
I saw torn-down buildings
crumbling cafes
boarded-up
fenced-off places
ringed with strong wire.

"Do you know where we are ?"

"Sure" you said
and slowed
suddenly,
brought us to a halt.
At an angle
you trained the headlights -
flooded the road with light
and said: "Stay here".

Did I dream ?
I rubbed my eyes.
You murmured something I don't recall.
I looked long and hard
through the window
watched you walk, stand in silence,
bend to get up close
the wind strong now,
the rain washing blood away.

"Don't touch" I said
(more to myself)
but you couldn't help yourself,
the smoothing textures of still-warm skin,
your fingers running
through soft pelts of hair.

Its bulk shocked me.
Its eyes still open, its rear legs
stiff, distorted in the rain.

Sometimes, recalling that time
I smell a woodland scent
the rain-soaked bracken,
the perfume of the trees.
I could sense your unease, but also your
wonderment, because
the strangest things
(you once told me) in this life
can move us.

You got back in the car,
drew me to you.

"What was it ?"

You shrugged. "Like nothing I've ever seen before."

Later, I studied your face,
the light, reflections of dappled rain playing against your cheeks.
"We nearly there ?"
"Sure," you said "we're nearly there."

I felt comforted by the rain,
and - strangely - by what we had seen.
I settled back in my seat
looked through the window
saw shadows move
among the trees,
slept some more.