The speaker begs for silence, refusing comfort and solace, and sinks into regret that feels like a dark, still pool. The imagery turns grim: they picture themselves as a frog squashed on a highway, still faintly alive, heart throbbing, staring up at black tarmac and waiting for one last tyre to finish the job. It is a picture of helplessness and exhaustion, with breath slowing and bubbles rising between sighs.
Then the tone shifts. The speaker remembers that stars and a moon are still overhead, and imagines a gentle hand lifting them off the road and laying them to rest in the woods. Hope, the poem suggests, is simply the act of waiting for that kindness until the final breath. Yet the last line pulls the rug out: "The approaching lights." Whether the hand arrives in time is left unanswered. The mood is quiet, sorrowful and tense, with a small, fragile hope caught against the dread of what is coming.