The Driver


The driver sat on a steep grass hill, and breathed in deep the cool clean air, and all was quiet, all was still, the driver found his comfort there.

A man he was, and sick was he, of noisy roads and diesel fumes, that stung his eyes so he could not see, the bed and breakfast café rooms.

So he left his van in the middle of he road, and walked and walked to where he sat, this pagan man shrugged off his load, his hair blew free without his hat.

A freedom never felt before, a freedom never longed to be, for a man must live, and a man must eat, a man must look, and a man must see.

Deflated, defeated and so soul tired, he began the long walk back to grime, when he got there, he was fired, for in their eyes he’d committed a crime.

“Your time is not your own,” they said “we pay you well to drive our van, you can not use time as you see fit, you a very ungrateful man”.

So his weekly income lost, he signed his name and begged with bowl, for that’s the price that freedom costs, a beaten man, he joined the dole.

Now time was his, and oft he went, and sat upon that grassy hill, his working time was now well spent, he now had life, he now had will, he now had found himself at last, there was no writing on the wall, only present, future, past, the rabbits hop, the swallows call.

As age came, he began to see, that being lonely was a state of mind, and with a quite tranquillity, he tried to stay alone, but kind.

One winter as he walked the dale, the snow lay thick, the air quite cold, his mellowed heart began to fail, he realised, that he was old.

He sat and watched the pale white sun, he thought about the things that he, had thought about but not quite done, and now would never ever be.

As the sun sank slowly down, he looked at it and began to smile, no more for him to curse and frown, no more to stand in single file, for there upon the dale he lay, his mind at rest, his heart set free, the moon came up to close the day, the sun declined, and so did he.


by Angie_emau