By Mary Mulholland
The journey back is full of metaphor:
too much traffic, deep wintertime, and
twelve hours of shared driving, too tired
to talk, now the baby’s crying, dog whining,
flashing lights tell of another hold up. We voice
expletives, longings: a soaking bath, a wee dram,
to let the f* dog out, put the children to bed.
No one mentions Christmas. Just pleased
it was over, ready for home. It’s raining
and dark. At last cars move on the other side.
Then our turn to pass the cause of the delay,
headlights beam on a burned-out shell,
four others smashed, and on the grassy verge,
being rained on, a row of body bags.