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
...