Had my own uncharacteristic fit of poetry some years ago, and topical too:
"Sunday morning, 9:30. Sun burning the autumn mist off nicely. Definitely a
day for getting the Sunday papers in the roadster. Through the lanes and
villages of Warwickshire, the suns rays streaming through the trees and
clearly visible in the remaining mist. Hedges, power and telephone cables,
and most of all the fields, covered in what looks like the finest jewelled
lace, but is the morning dew on sheets of spiders gossamer in the low angle
of the sun. As the car twists and turns, over clear rises and into sheltered
hollows, running sweetly in the cool morning air, the screen mists and
clears again, sometimes inside sometimes out, sometimes both together. Forty
miles and an hour and a half later return home. Wonderful. The paper? Bought
it where I always do of course, at the local shop just down the road."
It was subsequently included in a dissertation on the joys of classic car
ownership.
PaulH.
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