Water on a Motorway

Roaring along at inhuman speed,
Images at glass, beyond reach,
Blurred trees and grass,
Tarmac lines shot through them,
The paths we cross and follow,
But never lay thanks to those who lead.

Heavens had opened up,
Mere minutes before,
Roads drenched, awash,
Blessed, bestowing nature,
Lay in futility, hugging
The man-created course.

The left of my eye's camera,
Incessant hulking behemoth,
Dragging its bounty behind.
As it's brutish gait persists,
My lenses cascade downwards,
Amidst the flow of the road.

Created from creation?
Or transcending worlds?
Spewing forth from rubber feet,
Hissing serpents of azure fire,
Smoking spray and undulating,
Following another's path.

They lash at the behemoth,
With outworldly fangs,
Never ceasing, following tracks,
Tails escaping oblivion,
The pair crosses in fluid motion,
Like tendrils of doused flame.

Smaller faster beast of Man,
Speeds past our moving haven,
With all Hell's haste to regret,
And grants my eyes a new picture,
Of star-cross'd worlds' attrition,
Bathed in grey, blue and amber.

Adjacent walls, translucent,
Spitting forth from midnight tread,
Rising forth in liquid glory,
And quailing as Creator leaves,
Losing faith in Man's existence,
Passing back dimensions in pity.

And so we pass from our watery canvas,
Onto dryer lands, where images
Hold other keys for other locks,
Of mind's eye and camera,
But the man-made easel,
Did surely hold for me wonders,
That men of strict eye refuse to see.