Driving South

There's satisfaction and the thrill

of backing out the car,

in locking down the garage door - ­

your E.T.A. is two hour's south,

the road that ribbons down the coast,

as if your safety belt's fastened,

tray and seat belt snapped to upright - ­

the runway charges into blurred and eagle-clawed

the Boeing slips the ground, rotates upwards,

flattens out its gravity and surges

across the bay - four big turbofans

lift their jetstream, soar towards the coast.

In fact, you slide to 'drive', throttle and rev,

manipulate the flow and veer of traffic.

Direction straddles your wheel-lock tyres,

hands caress to steer, fingers trace

the contours of maps and the dimensions

of highways that flow flightpaths to the sky.

to the sun. The black-top's rolling on,

macadam slides between your heels,

,

the velocities of steel and space perform

a syncopated melody of miles.

Your wingspan beats in tracks across the stars,

in rising thermals and the latitude

of winds that weave your flightpath here.

where idling creeks and stonecrossed rivers flow

The earthbound paddocks and the calm of trees.

Here is the raptor home from the sky

and the highway that brings this driver home.