Just going through the motions,
Like a fish in a tank.
He’ll swim to the other end, but
It only means
Turning around and floating back.
Why can’t he be happy with that?
He recalls a game he used to play when he first passed his driving test:
The left and right game.
Sometimes the car, known as
The Big Brown Fat Slag,
Took them nowhere and then back again.
That was okay then, because
Other times it led him down strange midnight roads,
Where magick laid it’s golden eggs and
Strange flora waved them by with stardust petals.
Hundreds of miles they’d travel,
Chomping on American Hard Gums as they wondered and wandered.
Stonehenge appeared against Jaffa cake sunsets, through the mists of a gentle silver dawn;
One side of the country, it’s mysterious, fortresses of solitude, white marble rock faces whispering secrets of smuggling, barred the fierce North Sea;
Castles, screaming their oppressive, murderous pasts, grew from hefty hill and heavy forest.
Even the busy service stations, filled with the scent of ageing fat, shone with unearthly faerie goodness.
The only motions we went through was at the hand and dice of dearest Serendipity.
It’s time to find the keys.