Red Barchetta

My uncle has a country place

That no one knows about

He says it used to be a farm

Before the Motor Law

And on Sundays I elude the Eyes

And hop the Turbine Freight

To far outside the Wire

Where my white-haired uncle waits

Jump to the ground

As the Turbo slows to cross the Borderline

Run like the wind

As excitement shivers up and down my spine

Down in his barn

My uncle preserved for me an old machine

For fifty-odd years

To keep it as new has been his dearest dream

I strip away the old debris

That hides a shining car

A brilliant red Barchetta

From a better, vanished time

I fire up the willing engine

Responding with a roar

Tires spitting gravel

I commit my weekly crime

Wind-

In my hair-

Shifting and drifting-

Mechanical music-

Adrenalin surge

Well-weathered leather

Hot metal and oil

The scented country air

Sunlight on chrome

The blur of the landscape

Every nerve aware

Suddenly ahead of me

Across the mountainside

A gleaming alloy air-car

Shoots towards me, two lanes wide

I spin around with shrieking tires

To run the deadly race

Go screaming through the valley

As another joins the chase

Drive like the wind

Straining the limits of machine and man

Laughing out loud

With fear and hope, I've got a desperate plan

At the one-lane bridge

I leave the giants stranded at the riverside

Race back to the farm, to dream with my uncle at the fireside