OH THAT MG TC!

You could climb over the door, it's so low,
but open it, all the same,
and squeeze into the seat,
the steering wheel right there
in your lap, and stretch
out your legs, almost horizontally,
because way down there in the dark
your feet must find the pedals.
Turn on the ignition, pull the starter button
and feel the car rock as
the twin carburetters do their stuff
and the engine barks into life,
and settles down to a burbling growl.
But best of all, in my MG TC
was the view along the bonnet,
long and slender, flanked
at its tapering far end by
the headlamps in twin
silver globes reflecting
a blinding sun.
Then we're off!
The engine rising to three
consecutive screams,
each abuptly ended
by a swft change of gear
made with a stubby leaver;
and now in 4th,
the speedometer needle
still climbing, but more slowly,
I settle back and luxuriate
in that exclusive sensation
of tearing along in an
open-top sports car,
the sun on my face,
the wind tussling my hair
and a sense of machine
and body being one.
Oh those glory days!
Those days of youthful freedom.
They slipped away without my knowing,
coalescing into something dull,
and glimpsed, as through
the crack of a door:
a world of colour and light
teasing me from
the prison cell
I built around my life.