The Motorist

If I should die, you won't think much of me;
Perhaps the corner of an inside page
Is all I'll be to England. There won't be
An English earth to cover that outrage.
Our self-deception keeps us unaware
How much it costs, not just in flowers, to roam
While breathing England's lead-polluted air,
Washed by an asphalt river to our home.
The clever surgeon took my heart away
And so it pulses in another's breast
Who will, I'm sure be for the moment given
The sights and sounds of traffic all the day:
The juggernauts will not give England rest,
But, if God wills, I'll go, on foot, to heaven.

© Peter Howard

First published in The Independent