Truck

On the wind‑laden moors of a quiet English lane,
a lorry grows old in amber light, its metal shell a cloudless plane.

The driver, a quiet soul of the long‑haul kind,
navigates the roundabouts, the round‑abouts blind.

Its cargo, hidden in the belly, a cryptic trove of dreams,
the freight, the lifeblood that keeps the city’s seams.

The wheels, those bruised black‑rubbers, roll over lane‑breaks,
like a veteran of the M4, enduring the everyday aches.

A sudden squeal, a warning, a spot of oil on the bonnet,
the lorry pauses, the driver checks, for safety is the joint ford.

Colours flicker in that humble spray of tail‑light’s gold,
while the night, so steeped in stars, glows on the road.

Inside the cab, a wry creak, a newspaper worn at the spine,
the driver’s hands, steady, steady on the wheel and line.

He remembers Yorkshire's windstroke and the Finchley quiet,
the way the lorry cuts through snow and summer rye.

Some say a lorry is just a box on wheels, a friend or a foe,
but the lorry haunts the highway’s memory, moving soundlessly like snow.

So here’s to the lorry—your crisp black silhouette, bold and bright,
roaming Britain’s arteries, delivering hope through every night.