PUB SUPPER AND THE F1 EDITION
Tractors towing trailers of rolled bales the size of small cars
Towered over us, our motorbikes piercing the gaps
Between hedges and wheels as big as grindstones,
Evading impalement on the suspended spikes of hay tedders
Being dragged between fields to fluff dead grass
In the relentless heat beneath an undefended sun.
At the pub in the middle of nowhere for a steak and ale pie
We watched no one pass by. The bar filled, the hot air rising
Until we stepped out into the amber of a condensed summer
Where the turn of the Earth was already cooling its crust,
And there it was, one man’s transport, another man’s dream,
As slick and menacing as any aspiration. An almost impossibility
Of matte green Aston Martin Vantage, F1 Edition.
Of 200, this one had chosen here and now to be evident.
I cast my eye over possible owners, and suddenly, he stood,
Pointing at us and shouting my partner’s name.
As improbable as the car, was their association; I watched two men
Two decades apart since they worked together back then,
Gazing through the skin of their years at their younger selves
Through the prism of a V8 Turbo Charged engine.
