Byron Hoot

It is the right kind of day for travelling
alone – overcast, windblown, chilly.

Maybe the radio on but there’s a lure
towards silence on a day like this.

 A word or two whispered, a refrain
replayed to the hum of tires,

the attention to the road that lets
the heart and soul roam across

that inner terrain that knows no
boundaries.  And then your destination

suddenly appears, and you look
at the clock, squint to see where you are.