A470

It had rained steadily all day, after several weeks of dry spring weather. The low cloud sat on the shallow valleys, and the green bowl that was Pontypridd, grew grey, and grizzled to the sky, moment by moment. Soon it would be dark, thought Frank, standing on the front step and looking out over the murky A470 below him, a trail of tail lights going round the bend to Cardiff. His exit was closed, Southbound, and Frank watched the yellow lights of the tarmac trucks, and assorted ancillary vehicles, as they went about their gloomy business. An army of giant yellow ants. The newly green trees in front of his raised garden swayed impassively, as the rain kicked up a gear, and bigger squalls blew in from the West.