At this time of year
the barricades go up;
roadworks loom
all over Ealing.
How do we get out?
Not even passports, or a seal
stamped with wax will help us.
Going to and from the shops, school runs,
work, our paths are blocked with signs
pointing in new directions
too often petering out or spiralling us
like fossils.
Traffic fuses to roads,
the Cyclops’ eye stays red,
drivers turn to dust, every car, van,
bus becomes a mausoleum.
The flies never stand a chance
against the gods of the roads
in their bright orange tabards
who laugh and find us all very amusing.
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