Now the slow lorries trundle north.
Impatient the drivers curse silently behind.
There is a distinct lack of mirth.
As the line of sight vanishes into a dip, I can’t overtake, what a bind.

But slow down awhile and look at the great skies.
The huge views in this vast undulating Lincolnshire landscape.
A land of distant copses, pylons and gentle rises.
Far flung villages in tree shaded guise.

And think of this dreary asphalt as the stone clad Ermine Way.
A Roman legionnaire, plodding forwards.
Fully laden at thirty miles a day.
His work on the Northern frontier of empire taken onwards.

And then a mighty bend around a runway goes the road.
To take Cold War Vulcans, bearing an altogether heavier and deadlier load.