I've just attended a lit. lecture on T S Eliot (yes, I know what that's an anagram for) and it seems to have affected my mind...
No longer dark, nor yet light.
The hiss of my tyres on the wet road,
Is punctuated by the drone of delivery vans.
And the half-hearted hum of early morning traffic,
Is the chorus to a solo magpie.
Clouds caught in the liquor of dawn,
Blaze as flakes of incandescent orichalcum.
The Maribyrnong River, old glass over chocolate velvet,
Repeats their glory,
And echos the dying embers of the stars.
The bottom of the hill, still shrouded in shadow,
Reverberates to the shriek and clank of freight trains.
My feet maintain a wild gyre.
And I hold to my course,
Against the maddened rush of two-tonne metal beetles.
And then rise upon rise upon rise.
Did Sisyphus ever feel such rapture
In each brief moment at the summit,
'Ere his inevitable fall?
The stoplight's ruddy glow gives me respite.
My sweat rises to to meet the morning's chill
And as a numbus haloes me.
Then the green light releases me,
To rush past logjammed motorists
Who, fortified by radio shockjocks
And myriad fleabite frustrations,
Snarl at my imagined insult.
No longer dark, nor yet light.
The hiss of my tyres on the wet road,
Is punctuated by the drone of delivery vans.
And the half-hearted hum of early morning traffic,
Is the chorus to a solo magpie.
Clouds caught in the liquor of dawn,
Blaze as flakes of incandescent orichalcum.
The Maribyrnong River, old glass over chocolate velvet,
Repeats their glory,
And echos the dying embers of the stars.
The bottom of the hill, still shrouded in shadow,
Reverberates to the shriek and clank of freight trains.
My feet maintain a wild gyre.
And I hold to my course,
Against the maddened rush of two-tonne metal beetles.
And then rise upon rise upon rise.
Did Sisyphus ever feel such rapture
In each brief moment at the summit,
'Ere his inevitable fall?
The stoplight's ruddy glow gives me respite.
My sweat rises to to meet the morning's chill
And as a numbus haloes me.
Then the green light releases me,
To rush past logjammed motorists
Who, fortified by radio shockjocks
And myriad fleabite frustrations,
Snarl at my imagined insult.