My family are all from Glasgow or Port Glasgow, so we travel up there a lot.
On our way to Glasgow via the M6 northbound,
I rest my head against the back seat car door
of the 09 blue Passatt my mother adores.
I lean on it’s inside window ledge,
the door lock jabs me behind my ear,
a little bearskin hat, marching on me, one, two, one, two,
like small utterances that I can’t quite hear.
It murmurs like vibrations on train tracks
of a journey, further away from the platform than here,
whether on its way, or having left, somewhere near.
There’s four of us in this car, all silent, all murmurs of each other,
like ripples in water, which only become visible at a touch
and eventually, fade away.