The Road To Barnsley

All I hear is soft music
coming from the car radio,
the thrumming of the tyres
on the uneven surface of the A1(M)
It’s hot and I’m sleepy.
I know we’ll be turning off soon to Barnsley.

Even though I’m tired
I see the litter along the route,
man mess.
Plastic clinging to trees,
tin cans on scorched verges,
polystyrene boxes with half eaten crap
spilling from its innards.

On a steel post wearing a withered bouquet
with purple and white ribbons
flapping in the draught from constant traffic
Some poor soul’s memorial.
The burnt out carcass of a car
bits of black rubber, flayed,
bobbing and bouncing along the highway.

The list is endless,
a trainer with a split sole
lies at the edge of the inside lane.
Whose ? I wonder briefly,
we turn off to Barnsley
there in the ditch by the roundabout
some moron has discarded an old stained mattress.

For a space the countryside
shines through,
we enter the pretty village of Hickleton
with its sandstone coloured cottages
mellowed and cleaner since the mines went.
Too soon the man mess is back
with our passage through Thurnscoe and Gt Houghton.
Across heath land, laden with careless cag,
over once scenic hills.
I think of Rome built on hills, is it seven?
Why are these hills such a blot
on what should be a picturesque landscape?

The questions form momentarily
for the millionth time on my mystified mind.