He swerved into a parking ditch road,
no swishing tyres or plugs misfired,
or grinding gears assault his ears,
no neat reverse or sidestep mode.
His wheels spun round in undergrowth,
petrol dripped on nightshade's lip,
while deep inside a dark ravine
his vehicle slipped through scenery,
sleeping deep below.
Soil pressed hard on window's sheen,
centipede stole beneath.
Ants that marched, worms that turned,
alarmed that the trickle of their mighty stream,
had dammed behind its gaping boot,
spanner fell on a road map book.
How can a person not be found,
when a search has covered every inch of ground?