On a caged bridge above the carriageway
you count cars and coaches going under,
a scalextric track of trucks and trailers,
SUVs, HGVs and MPVs, imagining
if they drive far enough west they’ll end
up coming back at you from the east
like the tide coming in, or looping home
movies, memories made actual,
flesh and blood in metal steering home.
But they wouldn’t. They would end
up in Ayr, or Stranraer, filled with boredom
and sandwich-stink, gut-busters
turned butt-gusters, cranky at black waves
crashing shoreward, spuming hoodlums.