Nanowrimo poem 5 Skid

 

I recently gave my writing group two images as prompts. One of a campfire and the other, a road. 

Skid

Cold black tarmac,

Fades to dog-muzzle grey.

Ahead, shrouded in ice,

The white line skids around the corner.

A car hisses past,

Rattling the frosted fingers of fir trees,

Stirring the ghostly mist into curls.

Brake lights blink red.