They came to receive Homage.
'twas not a hard or soft top to be seen.
Sunlight twinkled through the dappled trees,
hares played upon the grass
bees hummed in summer flowers
there were sounds of tinkling glass and globbing wine
Laughter and gaiety - in the peace of an English Summer's Day.
They came in diverse raiments
of Red and Jasmine
Damson and Conifer
hues of purple and blue -
>From lands near and far
spoke their riders in English and Celt
Flemish French German and Dutch.
One thousand two hundred pistons
rose and fell in a cacophony of sound
that to the ear
as music was.
Four hundred plus fifty litres
as one together
sipped leaded and green
and were content.
Paint gleamed, chrome shone
of dead insects on visors were there almost but none
And they sat
In hallowed rows
rank on rank
Facing the glorious sepulchre
in which rested their friends
where, weary'd from tasks of yore,
have found their Peace.
The hours passed
and people passed
in quiet and respectful homage,
giving utterances of praise and delight
- yet sorrow
that these majestic beauties were now no more
but cherished babes forever seeking succour.
As the day was past its zenith
and shadows would soon lengthen
and the sun to sink in the west
came the time to move again
towards their homelands.
To the south and north
West and East
and yet further south
across the sea.
Keys were inserted,
motors whined - and fired.
Idles rose
and fell.
Faint puffs of occasional smoke
from low slung shining pipes
skittered on the breeze
and wafted to the Chilterns
there to mingle in chalk and beech.
Pedals were pressed and levers moved from neutral
some to first
and some to drive.
Hands were waved
tongues and throats made noise
and they moved
slowly on their way.
There was a lump in my throat
and yes, more than one tear in my eye
as the glorious and most majestic
of those last, beautiful Triumph Stags
moved slowly and soberly forward
with subdued but dignified growls
of Giants disturbed from their slumbers.
Yet they shall meet again one day, I hope - as surely they must.
They moved to a magical sound
a sound of history
a sound of days gone
a sound associated with happiness and a carefree
and then unaquainted awareness of the realities of life and its hardships.
They moved with a sound
that for me, just me,
was a poetry
re-lived.
A poetry not that of mere words of rhyme and meter
but of poetry of lives now past
lives who created
lives who made
lives who sold
hammered into an intangible whole.
A poetry that can only be fully understood
by a fast diminishing few
the few who were there
at the very beginning.
And now it has come full circle.
In my solitude at home, emotionally
yet without external display
my heart weeps like a child for the past
For today
for the first time
I started to re-live my earlier life
And it was sweet
so sweet
and I drank my fill.
I hope no-one minds? I hope you understand?
John Macartney
On 'European Stag Day' today at Gaydon
(and what a glorious day it was)
John Macartney
Besotted with Triumphs...
... but sadly driving Japcrap
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