Travelling on the thumb wasn’t hard to do,
you took the rides that you could get with
no regrets, let shrinkage in the mileage set
your measure of success, strode the grassy
verges to your goal with thumb erect and
cursed the surly bastards speeding past so
fast they nearly spun you round.
Sight and sound of cars in slowing down
from highway speed to look you over was
profound relief, you were a driver’s thief
of time and yet a kinship of the open road
possessed a code as old as spoken word,
when you heard, “Where y’ going, mate?”
out of a stationary car it mattered not if
near or far or anywhere; right there you’d
found a friend.
Carefree days, at least for me, and though
I’d been marooned a time or two, I never
felt alone.
A traveller on the lonely road is primed to
view as kindred souls his fellow men, also
inclined to want to share their time, listen
to and laugh aloud about a common cheer –
while those who feared involvement in the
easy dignities of fellowship still thundered
past with faces turned away, I wonder if it
is the same today.
© I.D. Carswell
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