Stuck in a time warp
With Red Robbo rovers and maestros
They rattle down to the seafront in a maelstrom of pebbles
Eating sandwiches and staring at the Channel
Glaring at joggers flouncing by
North-facing flesh in symphonies of lycra
They stop for both red lights and green –
They stop anytime, anyplace, anywhere;
Negotiating Morrison’s carpark
By ricocheting off other vehicles
Careening along in a scrunching of gears
No automatic shift for them!
Pulling out unexpectedly at junctions
Losing control of bodily functions –
Nothing short of a nuke can rally them
With reactions like a sloth on Valium
They don’t know where they’re going
No satnavs for them!
Myopic wives consulting pre-War OS maps
Screeching directions to stone-deaf husbands
Open-mouthed, sucking in the scenery –
Hunched like potato sacks over the swerving wheel
Feeling out kerbs with their paintwork
Reading road’s potholes in braille
Brakes optional; signals superfluous –
Trees leap out at them
Pedestrians run for their lives –
Pavements are there to be used!
But in the rear mirror there’s a dream
Of uninterrupted B-roads in summers long past:
Her golden head
Leans into his unbelted chest
He grips his pipe between clenched teeth:
English hedgerows alive with birds,
Immemorial landscapes flashing by –
Eyes on the endless road ahead.
The adventures that they had together!
Free in the redolence, the heady scents,
Of leaded fuel and leather
Driving into their future together.