A Blind Spot

My dad was in his forties when he boughtHis first car, an old man’s Morris Minor –No need now to abandon the bed quiteSo early in the mizzling rain or fog.Walking became an option:A stroll in the park or a walk with the dog.But he was never what you would callA natural driver, some of his passengersWere relieved to face the wind whenHe dropped them off.Sometimes, I would ride shotgun with him –Keeping a look out for cars ready toAmbush him as they tore past his blind spotHorns blazing, and he muttering that‘Good God, how the hell was I to know?’

The cigs and the fish and chips twice a weekCan’t have helped I suppose, but time andGrafting in the mill, he insisted, hadInjured him and made him heavy and slow.My mum and dad never saved or worriedToo much about the future –‘Don’t you worry lad, it’ll be okay.’He was a lovely man when all’s said and done,But he still drove with a dodgy heartDying on the pavement as he fell from his car -And somebody, somewhere, might well be stillAlive because my dad had a blind spot.