Driving at midnight 

to my father's house

listening to Neil Young quietly

the warm air billowing 

the muddied scent

of threshed fields seasoned with rain,

thinking I know each turn

of this road by heart,

familiar as a conversation

you know every word to

before it begins,

the road unravelling

like a long sentence

of someone who talks

with no purpose,

I think I could close my eyes

just for a moment 

or switch off these lights 

and still find my way,

just like the owl 

who materialised momentarily

in the headlights,

whiter than a ghost,

before spiriting back to dark.