132 kilometres to Belfast,
the road stretching out before us
like a long black tongue
licking the crevices of hillsides
and the buttocks of service stations,
spilling over rivers, past small disturbed towns,
under countless bridges and through
lamp-lit tool booths.

100 kilometres,
speeding through silence,
the road bending without expectation
as you drive into a black hole
without any friendly red rear lights from other vehicles
to guide you home,
praying that there's still tarmac
and not hedgerow
on the other side.

98 kilometres,
through the black hole
and it's only been 2km
since the last road sign,
quietly converting the distance into miles
using the European speedometer.

88 kilometres,
and the road becomes a train wreck,
with all the traffic cones of Ireland
turning into signal boxes,
diverting your conscious into country lanes
filled with inarticulate lorry drivers
blasting morse code to each other
with their horns
and family cars wondering
if they will ever see home again.

68 kilometres,
and the cones flank our sides
like lanes of a bowling alley,
keeping us pinned behind
a haulage truck from Dublin
whose carriage signs you've read
ten times over.
The cones disappear
and the truck attempts to overtake
a car in front
and then thinks twice, pulling back.
We try overtaking the truck,
speeding up, sliding out, and yes
we are winning!
Coasting the fastlane of a Newry dual carriageway
with all the roadworks of Ireland behind us,
we have crisp, open road ahead
with a pair of headlights approaching safely from the other side of the road,
with a pair of headlights approaching ever closer to us,
with a pair of headlights in the same lane as us!
A crazed taxi without explanation
rampaging his way through the countryside,
damning all uniform road-markings to hell.
We move body, soul and motor back in lane
as the taxi slides into the verge,
speeds past our open mouths,
never looking back.

32 kilometres
and we are still talkng about it.
Near-death has never been so far away.

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