© roy ballard 2012

To the Blackdown Hills in February
Three hundred miles we drove all day
along the busy motorway
until the hills began to steep
and green-eyed snowdrops, full of sleep,
came out from winter beds to stare,
to smile and tell us we were there.

But we were only exiles three
who could not keep their company;
at home we were but could not stay
for we were of the motorway
where hangs the hawk on threads of steel
and life hangs on the steering wheel.

When first we came to make our way
upon the busy motorway
we turned our backs upon the hills
of February daffodils
that flourish there with simple art ;
we had, alas, to grow apart.