Freight and flight

Dawn heat, tarred sky

pink-striped on the horizon

beyond the lights of Darwin and the coast.

My rig sails into this air as though

weightless, two cars tall,

like a low-flying plane, skimming

the highway at the leaf-height

of the woollybutt,

dust clouds streaming,

gauges twitching to the forces

gently carrying me seated

like a gull wafted by a thunderstorm.

Driving this B-double, I’m as lusty

as Apollo, when he hitched his shining chariot,

the sun:

all the dazzlement

of power

focused in the steering column,

fierce stars arrowing

from the polished bull bar,

and a load that could crush me

a hundred times over –

but follows me

docile as a cloud.