He's done it ladies and gentlemen. After nineteen days I've finally broken my record from the last NaPoWriMo two years ago. To mark the occasion, I present another car poem, this time about a classic British sports car.
Spitfire Swing
The older cousin of later Triumphs,
yet overshadowed by its relatives
both older and younger.
Low slung, bulging headlights,
narrow grill, flared curves
along its back wheel-arches.
Not as fearsome as the Stag,
not as refined as the 2000,
Not as alloyed as the Dolly Sprint,
yet as swift as a gazelle
when it meets a turn in the road
and as fast as the best of its league.
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