A zirconium string: the Plymouth road clusters with headlights, lures the quiet passenger up from wordless thoughts.
Sparkle is created here, of a sort that will not rival any star: a mundane piece of loveliness: shine in a domestic setting.
In the cars whole other lives drive by houselights of more lives.
Something about that passing, that unknowingly shared point of time and space: the emotive commonplace in all lives.
Up the Tavistock hill they drive, looking behind them at the axled bling of carnival rides, hear the faint squeals from Goose Fair.