Martin Mcloone Poet Prose

The End

Coming to the end now,
not of the road,
not entirely sure,
the rain is beating hard,
almost blinding the windscreen,
no closer to an abode, 
this twisting winding road, 
must be coming to an end now, 
raining so hard as thick as fog, 
flooding the nearby bog, 
or at least it used to be there, 
not much in sight, 
only the palest white, 
with the grey silhouettes of trees, 
yet nothing living among these, 
must be coming to the end now, 
I can hear a horse, an echo, 
the cart visible within the headlights, 
the driver a dark shadow, 
waving with a slight grin, 
ushering through misty air, 
raising more than arm hair, 
I can feel the end now.

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