...Lamplit Ill Lumination...

It's late at night

and sitting on the right side 

of an old Ford Capri,

I'm driving North toward 

Peterborough, England.

It's 1987, but the Capri dates 

from the mid-seventies

and has acquired a 

high maintenance temperament.

The current state of tantrums

seems to revolve around 

all things electrical.

On this night the Capri is in motion, 

and hurtling Northward

while unbeknownst to me, 

electrical decadence

has maintained its course 

towards nullification.

Out before me the dual beams 

of my headlamps do their best 

to illuminate a long expanse of asphalt

while the remainder 

of the English landscape

is lost to blackness.

It is a world unacknowledged 

by this midnight traveler.

The Capri surges ever forward

at a cool eighty miles an hour

whilst photons spring forward

from each headlamps element 

at the speed of light.

Eighty mile per hour 

plus the speed of light

and still these distant photons

die black deaths some 

two thousand feet further on.

All that I am allowed to see 

at this moment in time

is a continuous scrolling 

of asphalt and white lines.

And then, suddenly,

all is blackness.

At the speed of light,

   light is gone.

My 80-mph assist has 

proved to be meaningless.

If anything,

a mini-blackhole has been created

by the sudden collapse of photons.

My proof of this is the fact that

here now, in the sudden darkness,

80 mph has surely doubled in velocity.

I'm moving at high speed 

and can feel it,

but I can't see it.

Frantically I toggle the 

headlight switch on and off.

Nothing happens.

Desperate now, 

my hand moves to the dim switch

and switching it to bright, 

intense beams of light

once again erupt from my headlamps.

A sigh of relief passes from my lips

while at the same time,

I find myself thinking of all the drivers

who will emit profanities toward me

as I pass them on my 

continued way homeward.

My angst suddenly dissolves

as the twin beams of light 

fuse together and then 

fan outward in an 

amazing explosion of light.

By way of a sudden surge of current,

both headlamps have been 

transformed into giant flashbulbs.

Immense flashbulbs which for 

   one half second,

light up a mile distant arc 

of English countryside.

For that one-half second,

I can see a multitude of 

trees and distant farmhouses.

There above me,

the arc of light was mirrored upon 

the low hanging clouds

and then just as quickly, gone.

Holding the steering 

to a straight course,

I move my foot to the brake pedal,

There to begin a slow deceleration

through the blackness 

beyond the windshield.

Shortly the opaque darkness gives way

to a translucent variation

and I coast to the edge 

of the motorway's shoulder.

At a full stop, I reach forward 

to switch my engine off

which soon commences a 

series of random pops and clicks

as the engine begins its cool-down.

My dash lights begin their 

slow swell of illumination,

and I find myself pondering 

all those Britons lying awake in bed

or sitting in a dimly lit room 

watching late night tele.

Moments ago,

a massive surge of light

came in through their windows,

to freeze mid-yawn visages

and then abruptly 

transform them to 

looks of wide eyed wonder.

On this strange night,

some were visited by angels,

others by abducting aliens;

still others were caught 

mid-sexual stride

by paparazzi 

outside their windows.

Rising and stumbling towards

their respective windows,

this various assortment of Britons

rubs its multitude of eyes 

and pulls away curtains

to stare out into the 

blackness of East Anglia.

Somewhere 

out there amidst the dark

sits a very glum American

who has left a 

lasting impression

(however cryptic)

upon the dozy minions 

of England.

Ó2000 Jack David Hubbell