Winding Road

Winding roads The table, light catches a singular drop of the blush on the carpet which doesn’t respond, no more than a road would do to a street light. Asphalt is grey at night, not black, full of spilt ale it felt adventurous, curled itself up and splashed into the landscape where roads had never before dared to a thread. How happy they were animals and tractors until they discovered the road ended by a river, too deep to cross in winters and too stony for sore hooves in summers. This problem was overcome when someone found a nugget of gold and the landscape was full of prospectors who survived, by eating their mules slowly.