there was a break in the clouds as the rain changed from torrential hard and heavy to torrential light. they sat in the car chatting as mum, the driver, followed the voice of the SATNAV. they discussed the merits of square crisps. the SATNAV points to a pass with dire warnings of not suitable for lorries and avoid at winter. but they are city folk. they sat sipping prosecco as the carpet shop burned in the nights and youths ran from shops with bags of rice. they sat reading books as the drug gangs stabbed each other over a postcode. they sat sipping tea as buses exploded and bombs went off on the underground. the next day they shopped in town. how bad could it be? the road wound its way through green rocky hills, sheep crossing their path. grey stone in green with the littering of white forms too focused on the ground to give way to a car. the road narrowed into one. twisting L-shapes with occasional space where another could pass. maybe. please don’t let another car come. please leave the road free. high in the heart of cumbria they stopped to take a moment on her back. to admire the curves of her body. the rise and fall of many limbs that receded into the horizon. a photo opportunity with a sheep then onwards down a spiral of road, each turning a fall. they passed on the way the fallen travellers to potholes. hoping, wishing, begging they did not join them. they passed on the way pensioners in small cars going in the opposite direction they had been. if only they could call to them. if only they could cry a warning: don’t do it! but too late, they were gone. and so the road continued to twist, curling its form around the tyres, flicking its tongue at their wheels. just as they thought: this is it. the narrow winding pass came to an end and they saw a road.
SLAMFitzsimons 