There’s a weight in the upholstery,
a thick, heavy sort of quiet,
that clings to the wool of the seats
like the damp of a November mist,
on the peaks of the Eryri.
They’ve been coiled in the footwell,
huddled in the corners of the dash,
whispering things about the old ways,
about the soil and the salt and the things we let slip,
through our fingers like dry sand.
Open the glass, wide now, boy
let the wind take the lot of them,
the ones who wouldn’t leave,
the ones who stayed for the sake of the argument.
Let ’em scatter like seed in a gale,
flying out over the heather,
gone to the valley, gone to the sea,
gone where the road ends and the silence begins.
Clear the air,
let the ghosts go walking,
for the car is too small for the dead
and the road is too long,
to be driving with shadows in the back.
Wind down the window, boy,
just wind it right down ‘til the air rushes in,
let the spirits drift, and free the ghosts.
