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resourceful, excellent, brave, true, and jaunty as they go on sweetening the hegemony. WES MAGEE MOTORWAY SCENERY After fifty miles of the road's symphonies I'm three parts sleeping with eyes mere razor slits and my hands dead matter on the trembling wheel. I dream the road a sky-high knife ridge, cloud fringed, precipiced on either side and, rousing, am glad to find the winter landscape still in place — the fields, skeletal trees, blots of bright water, and December's sombre tones rimed with frost. Later, the traffic slows and yellow lights revolve. In day-glo orange police stand akimbo like Mercurian invaders, while windscreen fragments crunch like hailstones beneath our hot tyres. Then it's eyes left to gawk at mangled metal, a shredded seat, and bunch of men in jackets hunched against the wind, caught short in a bleak land. Foot down, and speeding again, the road's numb notes drone on a dirge and sleet slants in like tracer. To the east vast fists of black cloud rear and shake. Across the frozen fields lights flash like warnings and the landscape peels back its cracked lips and howls. But we stream on, thinking we need never stop. 12 ...


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