Red Roads

Although the toll of the road in traffic accidents, especially at week-ends, is mounting steadily, the public seems to show little concern compared with that felt when some grave mishap in mines or at sea shocks the country.

The roads that run to the sea, brother,
The ways that wind to the hills.
They are broad, smooth ways and free, brother,
To man for his joys—or ills.
And the wide world dwindles year by year;
Man-god triumphant, scorning fear,
Where the traffic flows
Faster he goes
To what far goal no mortal knows.
But the scroll is marked with red, brother,
Where today the Reaper strode.
For here is a roll of the dead, brother,
And the red, red toll of the road.

Faster! Faster! Haste along!—Where
powerful engines throb and throng—
Speed calls today—And life is gay—
Where shining cars slip down the way.—
Sirens that hoot and gears that grind—
. . . “That was a close one! Never mind—
—Cut in to the left there! Take a chance!
—Only grazed him; just a glance—Mug
driver, that! Might have been worse.”—
On, on again, with a laugh, a curse—Hag-
ridden these, and speed her goad—Urging
them faster down the road—feeding the
craze to serve her need—“Speed!” shrieks
the beldam. “Speed! Speed!”

We grieve for the slain today, brother,
In the wars and the mines and the seas;
But the highroad’s piteous prey, brother,
We have few tears for these.
Only a few of the thunderous throng
Brushed from the path as we rush along.
Speed must be served!
Shall we pause, unnerved,
For a few fools hurled to a fate deserved?
Must the craze be curbed for the few, brother,
Who blunder today and die?
And tomorrow? It may be you, brother,
It may be you—or I.

Faster! Faster! Faster yet!—Stake
men’s lives on a crazy bet!—Press on the
pedal! The goad! The goad!—“Cut that
corner. She’ll hold the road!”—Shattered
glass—on the trampled grass—One gone
West, and a thousand pass—Tautened
nerve and straining face—The hag is
shrieking, “Pace! More pace!”—A red
stain merged with the roadside mud—
Pink petrol flowing. Or is it blood?—Only
a glimpse as we hasten by—And the toll
of the red road’s mounting high.—But the
beldam calls. No time for tears—Hooting
sirens and clashing gears—She calls, she
screams—And the red road streams—And
falls behind as in crazy dreams. She
shrieks in mad, insensate greed:—
“Away with the wreckage! Sp-e-e-d!
SPE-E-E-E-E-D!”