The Drivers of Seaford, by Chris Goode

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.