White lines and asphalt

I felt it yesterday evening,
standing at the edge of the village.

No cars, no people, no sun -
no interesting clouds.

An empty chill
as creeps from Summer’s far edge,
when bonfires burn
and leaves turn to blue smoke curls.

A curlew call would not be out of place
in the wide, airy stillness,
magnified with the distant hushed rush
of unknown travellers.

It was like a condensation of forgotten memories
from long, long ago
superimposed on the road.

I felt a question, unspoken words
from the winding asphalt and white lines.

I asked “What?” I said
“Where ...?”

The road did not reply, but the White lines and asphalt

whistled.