The Commute

My favourite drive home starts in the bottom west end of the city.

You drive along Lakeshore until you hit Brown's Line which

is easy to miss because it snakes off like a crooked sapling of

an apple tree trunk.

And you follow that north to 427, an old highway with roads

adding and leading off, a twisting of vines and if you're not careful

you'll end up on Burnamthorpe or the 401 east but I take the 401 west

and swerve onto 427 again.

Up past Finch where I would pick up my grandson,

up past Woodbine Raceway where both of his parents

exercised Thoroughbreds in all kinds of weather

and keep to the right for the 407.

A toll road they built a decade ago that transforms

2 hours of traffic into a half hour glide.

East to the York Durham Line, then north

past the Pickering Airport that never was built,

lands now grown wild.

Just cash croppers and coyotes, bears and deer,

vultures and turkeys, so close to the city,

It helps my head clear.

Turn east on the 9th towards Claremont, my old town,

where I stop to buy beer at the variety store,

and then turn north on Brock Road,

past the horse farm that the crazy rich guy built

for his young wife, past the guy who sells eggs, 

chickens walking all over his yard.

Past the deer farm, until you hit Coppins Corners.

Then east on Durham 21, through the forests that

host the trails for hikers and bikers. 

Until your crest the hill at Durham 23, 

turning north again.

Past Chalk Lake and the spring always busy

with people getting fresh water, past the ski hill, 

past the Gospel Hall, rising with the hills to Highway 47,

to the west is Uxbridge, to the east Port Perry with

it's famous lake of mud and weeds called Scugog.

Keep rising north into the snow belt where I once

rolled by truck, hitting black ice. I still count myself

lucky to be here.

 Down the slopes and up the hills,

past the donkey farm and the gravel pits in the distance,

on the home stretch.

The flashing light signals my last turn onto River St.

and the heading east towards Sunderland,

farmers fields and silos, grain elevators and corn,

and often the smell of manure freshly spread.

I drive into the town at a slow cruise,

look for neighbors, a nod and a wave,

and to my house with the driveway full,

horse trailer and truck, I deek into my spot

with my little white car, another commute ends.