Three Poems

PAST STOKE

The car climbs up past Stoke.
Blue signs in the sun mark
Where we are, not what we
Each think. For this we look
Ahead towards the haze. A host
Of traffic on our right moves South.
Contented on my left you sit,
You smile. I see your mouth
Moving in the noise. You speak:
'It's beautiful,' as if wide sky
Hallowed our version of the previous night.

Onward stretched Cheshire:
A flat-topped level of oak,
And near to, always ten yards on,
Silver tarmac burnished after rain
...