In Ireland with my newly returned love we lived in Midleton, a little village 25 km from Cork City.
He enjoyed showing me around his home of only a few years – but the new home of his heart.
Chatting about the ‘mysteries’ of writing poetry, we’d driven into Robinson’s Tyres yard, littered with used product.
I’d just finished saying I never suffered from writers block and could do a poem about anything. He pointed and challenged me to write about ‘Those’.
So while he organised for a change of Tyre, I wrote about them:
Smooth Skin
Off Old Cork road, turning into Midleton
stacks of life-saving re-treads have Buckley’s
chance of reliving their youth. Discarded tyres
lay stop-piled high; like Auschwitz bodies
deflated, black, aged-old wheel-rings have
reached the end and their final journey.
Unlined rubber circles, low profile cushions
await disposal; melting erasure – incineration.
Their job is complete – no longer needed.
The largest lay prepared, neatly size-stacked,
ready and resigned, proudly age un-marked
claiming their fair share of the dumping ground.
Smaller circles know their place, are thrown
haphazardly because they’ve lost their grip;
swallowed by take-over tyrants, larger than they are.
Tractor workhorses are content to rest, miles-tired,
worn out, knowing they don’t count because the speedy
don’t care – don’t notice how many lines are missing.
Frances Macaulay Forde © 2003
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