VINEGAR HILL

Rebecca Wilcock

Toyota Corolla, 1985 – sunrise red,
your beloved rust bucket,
scrambles upward in a midnight battle
with asphalt and short-lived ambition.
Vinegar Hill is what the locals call it –
I remember vaguely.

Dreading the thought of first,
you shift from third to second.
Roxette crackles through the radio –
‘It Must Have Been Love’.

Rain beads along the windscreen
catching the glow of passing lamps.
You curse the broken wipers,
the council, and the potholes.
The evil in your lung.

The road narrows and steepens,
You snatch the gear stick,
begging for first.

Then
a hint of wings,
a drift of pale feathers,
a glove of painted doves
steers the wheel,
guiding your beaten clunker.
You don’t recall making it to fourth.

Later your husband says
you were only tired.
But I remember this story
from the foot of your bed,
wondering whether to believe in angels.

And crying for you now,
I hope they guided you home
once more.