Orange Volkswagen Golf
Green White and Orange
Her head—lighted nose would sit protruding
beyond the edge of the door jamb,
Lanyard—hitched outside the gun—slinger’s saloon.
She seemed to smile at my gaze,
around the door—frame,
and laugh when I ran.
The grey skies shifting slowly
to the wild rhythm of her energic vibrato
I stood looking at her,
wondering at her great colour,
and how she may have arrived at
our house.
From out of the wonder and illusion
of the infinite focal point
of the unknown she came.
Now parked in the back drive.
Her box—sprung grey tweed upholstery
Was soon moulded
to the determined posture of your rushing body,
Hunched over its steering wheel,
And black bead trimmed with embossed faux leather,
Lit in small windows by the rain soaked sodium light
Of evening streets near home.
And waiting then, bonnet warm,
She imbued herself for a while
in the cajoling lush countryside around her.
The old black handbrake,
steadied the ground beneath her,
Not letting the fresh tar macadam
and white kerbings go from grasp,
But holding fast to such luxuries,
Great newtons of force exerted, radiated,
and bound deep into the rich brown soil and
Damp traction of daily fascinations
The corner of the house and the wide gable
thumped with tennis balls and sliotars.
A guardian angel
on a sunny day
standing amongst the turnip leaves
in the vegetable patch.
The taste of soil.
The worm’s back must have broken.
She sat there all through the lunch hour,
five minutes clipped each end by
the journey from the town,
And through the toilsome hours of waiting,
Elsewhere, from nine to six,
Or seven or eight or nine,
She stayed
While thanks was given,
While the soup was eaten,
While the bread was buttered
While the boxes were moved,
While the till rang,
Until her bic biro lollipop paint
seasoned to a rust brown just above the tyres.
All the while carrying a coded cypher
from this foreign dimension
She held me in the palm of her passenger seat,
schoolbag too,
For the daily journeys in and out of the town,
And your well—meaning raving lessons on punctuality.
She was grandad’s old car
that like an heirloom disguised as patriarchal jetsam
Took pride of place
among the priceless utilities of your arsenal,
As you installed a dutiful decorum
to the tall black—berried brambled ditches,
Retaining the razor sharp straw fields,
high up off the road,
And founded schools of thought
in old stone railway houses,
Along the roadside.
Green and Orange
Some would sing,
the colours of your nation
The essence of old Ireland,
and your greatest dream.
Long live her on, heroin!
As there was only the crafting of memory
as the road’s journey passed through me,
Crucifixed, just below the rear view mirror.
As we regaled the hitchhikers
As we hurriedly made for schooltime
As you moved through her gears,
And grappled with the big stiff wheel turns
Into tough corners
and dog eared footpaths
around the town.
(2010)
