It was the car graveyard

and there you were.

Dark hollows

gaping mournfully.

Black holes

sucking light,

grieving a life lost.

A tragic shell

with sagging tyres.

But still,

faded glamour

clung to your broken body,

hinting at past glories.

Your colour,

a collage of decay.

Like autumn leaves

rotting and dying.

But I guess

once you were red

flirty, racy, red.

And I’m guessing,


I yearned for a photograph

But settled for an image,

soft top down

and the wind streaming

over your soft curves.

By Fiona Lochhead   2003