Lethargic lions lurk along our motorways,
hedge-hid in tundric verges, silent, alert and still:
reviewing with cold, calmly calculating eyes
which of the passing thousands to mark out for the kill.
The endless, thoughtless herd of wildebeest rolls on,
aware but powerless to avoid the sly attack;
bemused by numbers and by more than generous odds,
only the wisest of the herd remember to look back.
The lions make their move, weaving towards their prey;
they speed and swerve and, merciless, pull down their prize.
The flowing herd moves past, a tad more slowly now,
to observe the kill with passive, semi-curious eyes.
The herd, less one, will not, must not and cannot stop;
it’s not their lot in life even to wonder why.
They cluck and shrug and, if they think at all, they think:
“There - but for the random grace of God - go I.”
“What is the point?” you ask. The herd is not disturbed.
They scarcely register one of their kind has died.
The lions lounge once more, their hunger fully sated -
no glory here to satisfy a lion’s pride?