Ireland from the M50

Read on the Academy of American Poets Website

tires careen along
the tarmac a runway
for the puddles to fly
mist themselves into cloud
the sun rainbows the mist
you get all four seasons on a drive
through this country.
the hills roll down my window
green looks grey
in the rain
this country
is a sad one
old
trying to stay green.
there is something sad about age
knowing the sun
won’t stop rising over
the motorway
tries to turn an old country new
I still remember
the old roads
the trees seem to whisper