Morris Travellers

Coachmen crafted the aging lines,
walnut dash that never fades,
aged-ash swept smooth above the arch,
seamless to the lacquered touch.
 
The window frame grows
moss along the wood,
each panel has been buffed
to light the chrome twice dipped.
 
George's hat and Ethel's cane,
have their place for countryside
walks, hampered by picnics
and old age no polish can restore.
 
Today the seats are folded down,
George has made a makeshift bed,
trembling lovers held entwined,
fumes will take them one last time.