For my father who, unlike me, spoke the language of car.
We travelled around Lewis in an eighty-year-old van converted in 1948 into an open-topped sports car. As we met with many helpful oily angels and archangels, I was like a confused altar boy in the church of car.
Like bees to jam our car draws in the kind of man
with plentiful advice, a story, and an engine plan;
at Gearranan, eight bikers sang to us the psalm
of the six-volt battery and the Morris van.
They also had dark tales to tell –
of a special kind of hell
where petrol turns to gel,
and carburettors choke forever.
The next day we communed with Denis in Bragar
in his cathedral to the classic car.
We genuflected before relics of Rileys and ossuaries of Austins,
and bowed our heads to the last resting place of three Massey Fergusons.
We went there for a petrol filter and were invited in
to hear tales of a lost way of travel
when every problem could be fixed for a fiver
with a set of spanners and a flathead screwdriver.
Two Lewis men appeared like spirits from afar
taking human form from petrol fumes; saying ‘we saw the car’.
They talked of piston rings and reverse polarity, sealing the engine block,
and again and again of gaskets – so many gaskets.
Denis brought us tea and baking from his wife,
and showed us photos of his vehicular life like a gallery curator.
Until, pressed for time, we left to the sound of our klaxon,
and smiles wider than our radiator.
Where have they been with their secret language?
Perhaps I heard, but then ignored, such distant incantations
and travelled this earth content to turn a key and drive,
while all the while this priesthood kept me moving and alive.