Driving along the motorway
swerving the packed lanes
I am glad of these times.
Because I did not die in childbirth
because my children will survive me
I am glad of these times.
I am not hungry, I do not curtsey,
I lock my door with my own key
and I am glad of these times,
glad of central heating and cable TV
glad of email and keyhole surgery
glad of power showers and washing machines,
glad of polio inoculations
glad of three weeks' paid holiday
glad of smart cards and cash-back,
glad of twenty types of yoghurt
glad of cheap flights to Prague
glad that I work.
I do not breathe pure air or walk green lanes,
see darkness, hear silence,
make music, tell stories,
tend the dead in their dying
tend the new-born in their birthing,
tend the fire in its breathing,
but I am glad of my times,
these times, the age
we feel in our bones, our rage
of tyre music, speed
annulling the peasant graves
of all my ancestors,
glad of my hands on the wheel
and the cloud of grit as it rises
where JCBs move motherly
widening the packed motorway.
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