Paul Wooldridge: Ode To A Family Waggon

There’s faces, drawn in dirt, outside
and one, stopped short, scratched in your paint.
A beast of burden, and our ride,
you’ve carried us without complaint.
Your floors are strewn with mud and sand,
the remnants from last holiday
when you were filled with luggage, crammed
around the kids, who, on the way,
would lose their toys and scatter sweets.
Although we’ve tried there still remains,
in crevices between your seats,
dropped crumbs and travel sickness stains.
We’re grateful for the past we share
but now you’ve failed your MOT
and what it costs for your repair
is more than a new car would be.