The Watchers - Susan Jones

I drive out with Mama Rosa
in the Nissan Micra,
on a June afternoon.
Rivers of road glisten:
tarmacadam flows
through country to sea.

We make sail for familiar parts
as if they were unknown.

The West Coast - beckons.
Summer seas becalmed,
bright sun - a yellow chrysanthemum,
wind blows through open windows.
Our car accelerates along the straight.

Mama Rosa frail and small boned,
sinks into her passenger seat -
quiet enjoyment cloaks her age.
While I drive,
hands at ten to two on the steering wheel;
eye on speedometer - reads the legal limit.

This is our life. In tandem,
within boundaries.
Silent acceptance of
where we are going
where we have been
where we will end.

Susan Jones