The Driver
By Graeme Cook
Some folk drive for transport, just a means unto an end,
They treat cars as a mere machine, and not a trusted friend,
Concerned only for the badge in front, how bright it may be shining,
And the many pretty toys inside, their egos there defining.
The driver sees it differently, with their car becomes a part,
Take the road together, hit the road, with a single beating heart,
The turbo’s rising wail, and the exhaust’s muscled, subtle growl,
To the driver’s ear, an orchestra, there’s music in that howl.
For you can feel the engine, as the revs rise at your command,
Feeling the lusty thrust of power, that answers your demand,
How the clutch feels underfoot, as each gear is selected,
The steering too, how it responds, to where it is directed,
The road you feel, within your palms, at every bend you take,
Every bump and line and camber, each triumph and mistake,
Your car it tells you all of this, for this is truly livin’,
Petrol flowing through the veins, and ways it can be driven.
Not just a freeway drive, but each outing on a mission,
And not a veering trundle, but a task of deep precision,
Not the tedium of traffic, relief at the arriving,
The thrill is in the journey, and the passion in the driving.