Spread-eagled, fallen angel’s wings lie prone,
dark, shredded tyres reaching to the heavens.
Did they plummet violently like Icarus,
actively rebelling against their master?
Or was their end more gradual, a slow decline
like falling snow that gently fades away?
The same conclusion waits for both despite
the drama faced: a lonely, cold, hard shoulder.
So take good heed, my friend, and drive with care
not speed, and fly, eyes open, filled with love.

Driving along the motorway today I spotted the familiar sight of remnants of truck tyres lying on the hardshoulder. One strip in particular caught my attention, its edges feathered.
(27.07.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Alexandr Popadin on Unsplash