Orbital

I drive seven times widdershins
round the M25
with your name on the windscreen
- a sticky back mantra -
wheels turn, turn in prayer,
radio calls out devotion.

There's a shout -
as lamp posts light up
the altar of the night
and I breathe weed with exhaust fumes.

In a moon music field
at the forest's cool edge
there is a congregation
that dances in tongues.