At the junction of compass points,
Round and round they go, up and down,
Journeys continue or turn around,
Heading North and South, East and West.
Cars only slow at these roads joints,
Out to the peaks or back into town.
The noise is constant, nature drowned,
No time for the journey or for the rest.
There stands the church that prays and anoints,
There lie the houses all darkened and brown
There run the arteries of traffic abound
And there, the people needing to be blessed.
Written on 13th January 2020.