(no subject)
While driving on a motorway I noticed a collection of wrapped flowers on the lay-by of a passing road. Grey clouds seemed to curl forming a blanket over the scene, I thought of what notes might have been contained among the coloured bags; browning paper marked by a child's hand professing the love of its mother, the weary tear stained note of a widow, the unheard cries of an older brother. Each marking an unceremoniously violent death in a place of total anonymity with a sad procession of grief unheard by passing cars.