The wreck of a love lies unloved in my Mechanics bay,

The wheels, rimless, scuffed are at it’s best, its nicest feature.

The Mechanic sees nothing of value in this once sentimental creature.

A bygone relic who wishes it could express in any way,

What it was once capable of doing through its younger years,

Long rides in the country, a joy to move the gears into place.

Hear them grind perfectly in tune with its engine, the thrill of the chase,

Now stuck at the back of the workshop, brooding, dying, full of fears.

For me, put in a new engine and then new pedals for my feet,

Upgrade the headlights that used to shine so bright

Let me ride in it to impress the other members in the Mechanic’s fleet

Put on a set of covers on its well worn seat

Perhaps throw a rug at the back, for I’m a passenger light

And show that this Morris Minor Motorcar can still compete.

Ian D. Hall