RED FORD FIESTA
MADE BY A ROBOT, DRIVEN BY A MORON,
ONE DAY, EVERY-ONE WILL DRIVE A FORD FIESTA,
BUT NOT A RED ONE, NOT A
BLOOD-RED FORD FIESTA
SOME WILL BE AGEING AND ROYAL BLUE
SOME YELLOW, SOME GOLD OR WHITE.
SOME SILVER, LIKE A SHRUNKEN ROLLER,
AND A FEW WILL BE BLACK AS THE NIGHT.
YES, EVERY-ONE WILL DRIVE A FIESTA,
FOR FIFTEEN MINUTES OF FAME,
SHOWN ON A TRAFFIC JAM VIDEO,
STUCK IN THE INSIDE LANE.
BUT, THERE IS ONE FORD FIESTA
THAT I SIMPLY CANNOT FIND,
STOPPED IN THE INSIDE LANE,
NOT ON VIDEO, BUT IN THE MINDS
OF WITNESSES OF A FATAL ACCIDENT.
A WOMAN KILLED IN BROAD DAYLIGHT.
THEY REMEMBER A FIESTA WAS THERE,
WHEN SHE CROSSED AT THE LIGHTS.
THE TRAFFIC LIGHTS WERE RED,
THE WOMAN JOGGER CROSSED
THE BLACK FIESTA KILLED HER.
LIKE A RAG DOLL, TOSSED,
THE WITNESSES SAW THE BODY.
THEIR HORROR LIES IN WHAT THEY SA1D,
THE MOMENT THEY'LL EVER REMEMBER,
WHEN THEY SAW HER LYING DEAD.
KILLED BY A BLACK FORD FIESTA,
DRIVEN BY A POLICEMAN'S SON,
IT WAS AN XR3 KILLER FIESTA,
BUT THE DRIVER HASN'T BEEN DONE.
WICKED IS WHAT HE CALLED IT
-THE BOY WHO RACED HIM FOR FUN,
DRIVING A SCIROCCO, LIKE THE WIND
TO BEAT THE POLICEMAN'S SON.
AS FOR RED FORD FIESTAS,
SUDDENLY THERE'S LOADS AROUND,
TWO DRIVING UP, ONE DRIVING DOWN
AND THE ONE THAT CANNOT BE FOUND.
I READ THE WITNESS STATEMENTS,
THE EVIDENCE,CHAPTER AND VERSE
AND THERE IT WAS,OR MAYBE NOT,
THE FIESTA,DRIVEN BY A NURSE.
IT WAS A BLOOD-RED FORD FIESTA,
AMONGST ALL THE SHADES OF RED,
DRIVEN BY A WITNESS TO THE KILLING
WHO FELT THE PULSE OF THE DEAD.
THEY ALL SAW THE NURSE'S FIESTA
AS IT STOPPED AT THE LIGHTS,
WAITING FOR THE JOGGER TO CROSS,
BUT,NOW IT'S BEEN LOST TO SIGHT.
FORD FIESTAS ARE A PROBLEM.
MADE FOR THE MASSES, ALL THE SAME
LITTLE BOXES, MADE OF TICKY TACKY,
AND NONE OF THEM TAKE THE BLAME.
BUT, I SAW THE BLACK CRUMPLED BONNET
A PHOTO OF THE FIESTA THAT KILLED,
THE IMPRESSION OF A DEAD BODY
WHEN A MOTHER'S LIFE WAS STILLED.
WHO CARES IF HER DEATH IS NOT AVENGED?
THE HUSBAND WHO LOST HIS WIFE?
THE FRIENDS WHO SHARE HIS AGONY,
BELIEVING IN THE SANCTITY OF LIFE?
WE DO,WHO WANT TO FIND JUSTICE,
BUT THE NURSE HAS BEEN HIDDEN AWAY.
QUESTIONS UNASKED, WITNESSES LOST
BY THE POLICE, WHO HOPE WE'LL GO AWAY.
SO, WE'RE LEFT TO FIND THE WITNESS,
A FORD FIESTA TOO FAR,
THE BLOOD-RED WITNESS OF DEATH,
AN OBSCURE AND INVISIBLE CAR.
BUT WHAT OF THE SCREAMING BOY?
THE KILLER IN THE BLACK FIESTA,
THE POLICEMAN'S SON
NURSED BY THE WOMAN IN THE RED FIESTA?
HE'S RECOVERING FROM SHOCK.
SHE'S GONE MISSING WITHOUT TRACE.
HE'S BEEN COACHED IN THE INTERVIEW,
SHE'S BEEN LOST IN POLICE SPACE.
MADE BY A MORON, DRIVEN BY A ROBOT,
ONE DAY, EVERY-ONE WILL DRIVE A FORD FIESTA,
BUT NOT A RED ONE, NOT THE
BLOOD-RED FORD FIESTA.
Dying Flowers.
(To commemorate a
cyclist’s death in Eglwysilan lane)
Roadside shrines of
flowers, bouquets of death, litter our roads.
Normally, they are sad, decaying, reminders of lost lives,
shrivelled stacks of brown leaves or tidily maintained shrines,
warning us of split-second deaths that could be ours.
But, today I saw a new
shrine in a country lane,
An improbable burst of flowers hanging to the greenery
perched unnaturally on a hedge, fresh and blooming,
colourful tears clinging to the bushes.
This is a shrine showing
fresh agony, the grief as strong
as the garish colours that reveal vivid emotions,
a loss that requires remembrance in these sad, happy blossoms
stitched to the side of a mountainside lane.
But, these flowers are
dying too, cut down in their prime,
sacrificed to represent death and loss,
wilting and withering, as the pain diminishes,
until numb acceptance comes and memories begin to fade.
Tim Richards
June 5th, 2004
Car's scar
Frustration's scars,burnt-out cars
blacken our roads,melt the tar.
Some are insurance jobs,on the nod,
burnt offerings to Mammon the god.
But, there was one auto-cremation
that haunted and fired my imagination,
when black concrete marked the death
of a family's last breath.
Oh, god, it wasn't heavenly,
that funeral fire, on the A 470.
The father had throttled his wife
and then took his son's life
by smashing his car into a wall,
a crash that took them all.
So,what of his boy who cried,
who screamed in fear and died?
The frightened child was only eight,
he only knew it was very late
when he heard the muffled row,
but he didn't know how
his life would be finished by hate,
that his father was his fate,
so he didn't ask,he got in the car.
His Dad told him they weren't going far.
No-one can know the truth of that last ride,
if he realised that his Dad had lied
about when his mum had screamed and cried,
or of his blind terror as he died,
when his Dad comitted homicide
and killed them both, in suicide,
ended their lives,took all the blame,
scarred the road in a burst of flame.
But his Dad didn't have the right
to kill his son in the dead of night,
to take his son's life, to end his shame,
on a charred wall without a name.
Frustration's scars,burnt-out cars
blacken our roads,melt the tar,
leaving us with just an empty space,
a death's scar, without a face.