Transit

My parents' third Volvo this decade
is rolling on to Birmingham, quiffs
of snow tumbling from the hood,
windows bleary like they just woke.
A white sunset quilting the fields,
the roadside drifts go amber
as headlights spill their beams.
Giant iron lamps are haloed
through my half closed eyes.
Brakelights bunch into a nebula
of strawberries, then stretch silent
down the A14's black factory chute.
The earth falls back behind the wheels,
it spins into a night of snow,
service stations, fallen power lines.
As I lean my head into the chassis
the metal thrum remembers me
and takes me in its arms.