Model T Ford

by Myra King


It lies in rusting riot

of shadowed days.

Flying high its emblem wings, 

forever stalled.

Front fender,

damage done,

but introverted steel

protects itself

not healed but hidden.

Those who survived

its old time crash

long gone from other causes.


Wind sinews through its wreck

whistles thin

its paddock mate,

the tractor

with the flattened tyres.

Later vintage laid to rest

when drought

threadbared the land,

shed those souls of country birth,

buried them live

in the concrete work

of city living.