Another automotive geared poem.
Men don’t make cars like they used to do:
long sweeping lines, strong colours too:
such poetic palettes, rich array of hues.
Horns happily honked, grilles that grinned,
mudguard covered spoke wheels spinned,
engines growled – wondrous whirlwind!
Dial displays, walnut wood dashboards,
large leather seats with room to afford
– classic cars never leave you bored!
Our Sixties saloon six-cylinder growled,
brown Triumph 2000 like tiger prowled,
acceleration fast, Morris Minors scowled.
One day my dad bought an MG sports,
male madness, mid-life crisis of sorts;
famously, we five fitted in, of course!
My parents in hand stitched leather seats,
I bent in footwell, near mother’s feet,
boot and bench filled, family complete.
More modest cars purchased on divorce,
gone the grand engines, farewell torque
– replaced by brands of ill-report…
image: Alan Fearnley