Ian Griffiths

On the ring roads of the world
Men sit weeping in cars.

And men are weeping in cars
With the windows up 
As the rain comes down
in the fast lane going nowhere
Oblivion of horns
On automatic cruise
With wiper thrash
And wiper thrash
And the face in the mirror 
is a child at a door
and words unsaid
those words unsaid.

And men are weeping in cars 
in the traffic surge
When the lights change green 
now amber turns red
But the pain won’t move
Their pain won’t move
With the heartbreak on
And the pedal pump
And pedal pump
throat full choke  
Still a face on a pillow
pale hand outstretched
small arms outstretched

And men are weeping in cars
With nowhere to go
In the parking lot
And the radio on the DJ gone
And the tears on the windscreen
Trace a life that’s left 
and a man bereft. 
A man bereft.

But the engine starts
the engine starts
and as he pulls away
a tear stained rag
is the only sign
that men are weeping in cars
yes men are weeping in cars


IAN GRIFFITHS was born and grew up in Wales and was inspired by the work of his compatriot Dylan Thomas. Now living on the East coast of England he is an ex – chairman of Suffolk Poetry society and is heavily involved in the local poetry scene. He has performed his work both at home and abroad. His first collection of poetry is entitled “ Conversations With Birds”.