The reckless road and so ever carefree, its lure of perspectives from the green verge. The hand cocks its thumb as if to plug a hole in a dyke, pull a plum from a pie, weigh the wintering sunrise at Junction 49. Makes a barbed hook to latch the tired eye or snare the curious heart of a lone commuter resigned to the law of diminishing returns. Or one who, bored through by radio banter and jingles, might risk everything on a random encounter. Some brief exchange that could shore-up the day ahead, thread the hours of time and motion with unexpected distraction, an anecdote savoured like a squirrelled humbug.
Bob Beagrie