(Thoughts on a country garage)

This is about Westons Garage, Much Marcle, where my MOTs were diligently executed

The tiger stripe fields

of nail-bed stubble

point once again

towards ice-green winter.

Soon, the stove will be lit in the workshop.

Mittens, earmuffs and army greatcoats

will reappear, as the bonnets

of  pre-war Austin Sevens

begin to bite with cold.

The huge hangar doors will swing shut

to shelter mugs of steaming tea—thick as soup—from the sheet-like winds that bounce

across the meadow.

Unpretentious words of life

will rise and fall in vapoured breath,

frosting the glare

of pendulous work lights,

brightly bare. 

This cavernous antique,

where no dealer would think to stop

his Volvo tank for gain;

this Aladdin's Cave of ancient signs

and information charts,

of gaskets and fan-belts,

that hang like entrails

from dancehall cloakroom hooks.

Here, at the crossroads of time

it stands, unchanging.

Oblivious to planners, extenders, double-glazers, stone-cladders and cavity-wallers;

a sheep in wolf’s clothing.

It offers, gimmick free and face-to-face,

those two mythical values:

honesty and fair play.