Automobelia

 

The cars I had bring memories,

They mark each month and year,

To aged fool from callow youth,

They mapped the road I steer.

 

I fed them with the very best,

To every need complied,

A very metal essence,

That could never be denied.

 

It was in the nineteen sixties,

That I bought my very first,

Be certain not the best car,

And probably the worst.

 

It cost me twenty eight pounds ten,

Inclusive of the tax,

But sure as sure when driving it,

You never could relax.

 

With cable brakes, no synchromesh,

To drive it needed skill,

It handled like a bloated whale,

Full guaranteed to thrill.

 

On hotter days the thing would boil,

And rain would see it stop,

It rolled demented down the hills,

Groaned angry to the top.

 

Too often it would need a push,

Electrics flat and dead,

I’d have to leave it in the lane,

And bus it home instead.

 

I’d thought ‘a magnet for the girls’,

Dark glimmers in my mind,

But often they would bus it home,

And leave me there behind.

 

And still I loved it rust and all,

Its leather and its wood,

It never did me any harm,

Though doing little good.

 

It never got me into debt,

All through my student years,

It brought me lots of laughter,

And as oft frustrations tears.

 

From Reliants to the odd Rolls Royce,

By now I’ve owned the lot,

From Bubble Cars to Yankee flash,

I’ve caused their rise and rot.

 

They led me to the open road,

In ways they set me free,

But even as I drove in them,

In truth they’re driving me.

 

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A Bluebird Of Happiness

 

We had a car a basic thing,

Its metal wrapped us like a glove,

While from its seats we watched the world,

The world saw strangers fall in love.

 

One hundred thousand miles and more,

Of coast and city, vale and hill,

From burst of spring to summer heat,

Through autumn gold and winter chill.

 

We were not conscious of the craft,

That built this thing to mans design,

But revelled in the magnitude,

Of what became just hers and mine.

 

The simple days of work and play,

The dangers that our lives surround,

A pleasure that the world displays,

A box of steel on holy ground.

 

And when at last it had to go,

We hid a note for latter days,

That read upon the wrecking time,

Would speak of love and lovers ways.

 

This poets view, this thing of words,

Transports from pristine back to rust,

But words remain when cars are scrap,

When all is done and we are dust.

 

 

With thanks to the men and women of

Nissan at Washington'