Motor

We followed the single tracks in a silver

Nissan Prairie. We negotiated the past,

Sliding into the passing places.

Riding faster over the bumps so I could feel

the half-second of falling,

before again touching home.

I rewarded you with a squeal or a coo.

We drove by the old bag of bones

that was your first home on the island.

You both told me of washing in the loch,

the too-freshwater icing away the dirt

of bodies, or peaty clothes, with every

daring drop.

Your stories of dances and half-drownings.

Moments of down, but mostly of up.

Do you see that there are no trees here?

you asked. I was sitting on her lap

but watching you drive. I know now

These were the roots. Lightly oaken,

like your fingers gently twisting the wheel.

In the hospital, I didn’t know where to kiss

the skinnied, stripling version of you.

I half-heard that he disease was in over-drive:

A Grand Prix of atrophy. A breaking down of

Stories and strolls. The last roars of

a written-off engine. Nissan don’t make neurons.

We drove too fast over that last one,

I can’t feel the road meet the wheels and

I can’t drive myself home.

N.B. Could really do with some advice as to where to cut. Would like it to be just 30 lines for a competition!