A Pluck Ago

A pluck ago,
She who is I from the egg, abob through the seasons,
Or, traffic-lammed, from the blithe-sounded horn,
Hell wind of highway,
A stream cemented, wrestling with its reasons,
Tan maid or smut,
Or, mistress feathered, through the joker's noose,
Strut down the dawn;

Who is my pluck,
A riddler unravelling on the metal,
Quenched by a lorryman, the bobbing beak
Shut to the cluck,
Was who was flattened on the wheel the errant
Road to enigma,
Leghorn to a hell of slaughter on the slog,
Apeck at the void.

© Henry Quince