No Power In The Verse Can Stop Me NaPoWriMo 2025

All roads look the same after a while. 
Except, that bit of the M40, 
Where the sky opens up suddenly 
And red kites swoop across the scene. 
Oh and that bit of the M5, 
Where you cross the flooded Avon,
Miles upon miles of sopping wet fields to either side 
As far as you can see.
And there’s that bit of the M6 of course
Where the Lake District hills are wrapped in fog, 
And tumble down towards you as you head north, ever north. 
And obviously the A303, 
Where you’re going about your business between London and the South West when oh, oh my goodness 
- Stone actual Henge rises into view. 
The A1 up the East Coast, guided by the Angel up past Lindisfarne 
Where the ghostly echoes of Norse battle cries on the wind catch on the breeze - 
You know, by that half decent petrol station.
The A9, oh the A9, up past the Moray Firth with the promise of dolphins ever running alongside.
That bit of the A30 over Bodmin, 
Where wild ponies and sheep gather in the bracken, 
And the fog comes in faster than you can say “Zelah”.
And oh sometimes the sat nav takes you to places you’ll never ever find again,
Like tiny fae realms suddenly beamed in 
Whose only purpose is to baffle you on your way to somewhere else…
All roads look the same after a while.
Until they don’t.