Potholes

Potholes

Beneath the bright‑lit glass of a balmy evening,
a silver road betrays its quiet deceiving.
A splash‑thick bubble of pothole hides,
a careless dent where cars and lorries glide.

The traffic light buzzes, amber, amber,
while commuters queue with battered umbrella.
A lone football girl tramps on cracked asphalt,
‘naming every hole a whispered name she had taught.

The old bus starts, rattles, complains of cramp,
its tyres flying over tiles that once were damp.
Sir Thomas from the local council frowns,
"we'll organise a fix before the next round."

And yet the pothole, dark and deep, remains,
a silent friend in out‑of‑sync lanes.
Like a marmite soul, it keeps its flavour,
in British road‑dirt, the trusty, honest savour.