02. Albion Lorry: 1

( after reading Geoffrey Hill, Mercian Hymns )

How could he know
about the light blue lorry
discarded by the pond,
the old Albion lettering cast into the radiator grill,
split leather seats and birds
nesting on the engine block?

I watched that lorry rot away;
sat for hours in the Spartan cab
in that sweet, metallic, musty smell
that only antique lorries have,
and drove to many foreign lands
with corn, potatoes, beef and beer
compatriots, and contraband.

The ducks cavorted on the pond,
splashed out their noisy, querulous lives
gobbling daphnia, grubs and weeds,
whatever else that lived in mud.

The old blue flatbed, built when wood
was still preferred to hold secure
the panels that enclosed and touched;
alloy, bent and stapled on
the curved ash frame.

A starter button and one switch for lights;
the arching pedal of the clutch
that went down like a lift to hit the floor,
useless, but engaging power.
Flat, split window screen
where tiny wipers hung
bent and rusty, from the eyebrows of the cab
that held cocooned, the landscape of a boy.