My Pale Blue van,

A poem.

I love my pale blue van

I am its driving man.

We go from place to place

At a very armchair pace


I sit to drive in my seat

And when I push on the gears

I become a king on a throne

With all my streets to roam.


Packed behind my rear

Is all my garden gear,

Brushes, hoes, spades, secateurs,

Saws, rakes, and lawnmowers.


We go from gardens here

To gardens over there.

We trim, we plant, we grow,

We leave each space just so.


In May I park my pale

Blue van under the shade

Of the pink cherry tree

That flowers out onto the street.


The west wind drives the raindrops

On the night van’s panes, plops

The cherry pink blossom petals

Like wet snow all over its metal.


The sun shines down on rivers

Of pink brown flower slivers,

Petals lodge packed into drains

That trail along the back lanes.


When I leap into my van

It has become a pink caravan.

The windscreen is cocooned

Underneath a skin of petals marooned.


I turn the engine on

The cab has little vision

Pink flower petals even encrust

The side mirrors like dust.


My pale blue van with its pink load

Blindly turns out onto the road.

It gathers speed and flicks

Pink pot shots at all the passing chicks.


Then with one great sweep

The windscreen wipers squeak

The cherry petals are cast

Into the air’s blue blast.


Like a child in a floral parade

My pale blue van cascades

Streams of pink confetti

Throughout the whole of the city.


I am its smiling man

I adore my pale blue van

I sit in my seat as it proceeds

Grinning through its grilled teeth.


Bobby Buckley May 2013.


One thought on “My Pale Blue van,

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