What it’s like to drive a supercharged supercar
Speed is one thing, writes poet and artist Frieda Hughes – but what about when it breaks down?
DEAD CAR
The Northern Lights stained my late-night memory,
Seeping and spreading, inking the incredible idea
That they were actually here, smudging the sky,
Into the morning after, as I took my cat-ripped thumb
For its last change of professional dressing. The flesh
Was knitting over missing parts as if finding itself.
Turning the Jaguar home the engine slumped,
My foot to the floor could not shift
The hulk of supercharged car that crawled back
At the speed of a push, for a flatbed truck
To come and pick it up. At sixteen years old
Age is against it. Diagnostics have moved on.
I am faced with three garages of men and a dealership
Who cannot mend it. With knee surgery tomorrow
I sweep the yard, I shop for food, I clean out ferrets and owls,
I rinse out fishpond filters, water plants, and stack the dishwasher;
I do the things I cannot do without two working legs
And hands that are not gripping the handles
Of the crutches I’ll be given
For six weeks’ good behaviour.