Trapped and escape

Down the entry ramp, onto the motorway, ahead the traffic is at a standstill, but it is too late, no choice but forwards. Looking in my mirror, a car has stopped on the ramp, stopping it seems in fright, it shrinks as I drive to the tail of the endless queue. I keep an eye on my mirror, eventually the car is coming to join this human mess. Now nearer I see the driver of the car directly behind me, a lady, she is sobbing uncontrollably. My heart tumbles. The traffic edges forwards. The claustrophobia builds and I glance in my mirror again, she is still crying and my heart leaps to her, though I am frozen. Is it the traffic? or perhaps a bereavement? The traffic edges forwards again. I try not to look, then glance and she seems to be more together, till my next glance. We edge forwards again. I think to get out, to comfort her, but what to say? I do not know, and my fear is too great, trapped in torment, both her’s and mine. Looking around, faces are forwards, no acknowledgement, they do not wish to see her. We edge forwards again. Cars in endless train ahead, endlessly behind, there is nowhere to go.



Walking into the forest, the quiet gives other senses a chance to listen, the nose takes in the fragrance of the trees. The eyes taking in the gentle views, the only movement at walking pace, the trees endless patience reflected. Some of this forest joy must be the oxygen the trees are feeding us, enriching our brain. Though now I miss the sky. Leaving the ancient sentinels behind, walking out to the moor, the land sits low, letting the sky have the stage, no plants growing high here, as low as arms when asking for volunteers in a classroom. This gives a magnificent grace to the horses roaming free here, silhouetted against the sky on wavy hills. One group is in high spirits, they start to throw their heads back, wafting their manes as they mock shampoo ads, kicking their legs then starting to run. This feeling is infectious among the herd and soon forty horses are galloping across the hill. Stopping, I listen, the soft thumping of hundreds of hooves on the moor is hypnotic, they are running for the love of running, ears pricked forward, no fear, just joy, a privilege to witness.


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