Lorry

On the motorway’s long, quiet stretch,
A rumbling lorry claims its pace,
Its bright red paint a flashing fetch,
Against the grey of road‑side space.

The cab, a modest, steel‑capped dome,
Holds a driver with steady gaze,
Eyes fixed on the white‑lined road,
Where kilometres melt into days.

Through misty dawn and twilight’s hush,
Its diesel sighs a low, contented tune,
Carrying goods in quiet rush—
From factories to market’s noon.

Wheels turn slow over asphalt seams,
Each turn a story, each mile a rhyme,
A modern beast of working dreams,
Keeping Britain moving, time after time.