Crash - poem 7 (home)

Hurled further through this isle
I put my foot down
Not an inch

Love drives me on through
May, June, August, September
Not the rest

Metal twists, I stop to stare
Granite-like, blood and tarmac
A procession forms

Tear my eyes away
From fusion of grass and fire
Destructive

Safer now with plastic bottles
Leaded or unleaded
Glass melts slowly

Mirror images smashed
A stand off of water and oil
Essential

Deep, wide trenches
Wield green
As weapon or badge

No seatbelt protects from history
This road has killed before
3000 times and counting still
Before this Civil War

Look far away to lakes and hills
To mountains tall and cool wet sand
Look to skies of blue and white
If you can, if we can