Off Old Cork road, as you turn into Midleton, rest
stacks of life-saving re-treads. They wait, un-like us
who have ‘Buckley’s Chance’ of reliving their youth.
The largest lay prepared, size neatly stacked,
image-ready, resigned, proudly age un-marked
claiming their fair share of the dumping ground.
Smaller circles know their corporate place, are thrown
haphazardly because they lost their grip – has-beens
swallowed by take-over tyrants, larger than they are.
In the distance, discarded tyres lay stop-piled high.
Unlined, rubber circles, retired, aged-old wheel-rings -
job complete, have reached the end of their final journey.
Tractor workhorses, content to rest, farm miles-tired,
worn-out, knowing they don’t count because the speedy
don’t care – don’t notice how many lines are missing.
Frances Macaulay Forde © 2003
(Whilst waiting for new tyres to be fitted, my man challenged me to write a poem.)