image: Alan Fearnley
Men don’t make cars like they used to:
curvaceous lines: red, green or blue,
poetic palettes, rich array of hues.
Horns happily honked, grilles grinned,
wheel-arched tyres, hub-spokes spinned,
engines growled – what wondrous whirlwind!
Dial displays, walnut wood dashboards,
large leather seats with room to afford
- classic cars will never leave you bored!
Our Sixties saloon-six-cylinder growled,
that brown Triumph 2000 tiger-prowled,
Morris Minors put-putted and scowled.
One day my dad bought an MG sports,
male madness, mid-life crisis of sorts;
all five of us fitted in, of course!
Our parents in hand-stitched 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 sport-torque,
all replaced by budget brands of ill-report…