Hillman Hunter from Niscitam by Blake Scott

The Hillman Hunter
in salt brushed Bermuda blue
Jewel of the Rootes Arrow
parked in a sandstone garage on
the corner of Glyde and George

We are rolling her out and jump starting
her down the George street hill
Lightly riding the handbrake on our descent
before releasing her into a free swaying roll
onto the Canning highway

I am giddied by her heavy leaded breath
and sticky on her seats
We ferry picnics up to Blackie’s
and park her up at Cockburn sound...

From the passenger side, I have you clichéd
in a colourful bonnet and oversized sunglasses
Neither of which I recall you ever wearing
You are smiling playfully, and I am careful
not to clip at your wings
In the late afternoon, the Freo doctor licks at the old
braised chassis and rocks us into a gentle slumber

Each time we take her out, I am slightly older
Not so yourself
32, though the Hillman was long gone before
you reached that age

My memories are at times over exposed and bleached
with the light pastel smear of the Hillman crawling through
Ferrying picnics up to Blackie’s
or parked outside the old railway hotel

Less and less do I venture into the mire of your final hours
I have the final photo of you at the beach
From that I have mapped your day
It is luminous and full

There will come a day that I’ll forget
Your memory has not left me yet
Time has not found me yet
That may change…

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