Bringing the cheque and the postal order,
Letters for the rich, letters for the poor,
The shop at the corner and the girl next door.
Pulling up Beattock, a steady climb:
The gradient’s against her, but she’s on time.
Past cotton-grass and moorland boulder
Shovelling white steam over her shoulder,
Snorting noisily as she passes
Silent miles of wind-bent grasses.
‘Night Mail’ by WH Auden
Except that it isn’t going to any more. There’s no romance, and very little logic- beyond short term gain- in the night fleet of lorries, spewing extra pollution and clogging the early morning roads.