Manifold
Some factor in the slope of hills precludes
Predictability so that, as roads
Send out their asphalt logic, each hill broods
On engineered banality and loads
Of scrap iron, fags, and ready-salted crisps,
But holds its dignity above. The men
Who drive these lorries see the hills and wisps
Of mist which trail through folds of peaks, but then
Reach out with tattooed forearms towards loud mikes
To make their CB calls, not hinting they
Have just been touched. Ask one man if he likes
His job, his rig, he probably would say
“The pay’s too low,” and would not mention slopes
And serendipities . . . or clouds . . . or hopes.