Dull grey lights casting a mournful pall

Turning every silhouette to film noir chic.

A stoic, stubborn little Fiat 500, illuminated. 

Scratched. Grimy. Past her best. 

Sits huddled in this pool of January twilight. 

She waits.

A patient, quiet idling. 

There’s no hurry to her. 

Spiders cling to mirrors, long-legged reflections and dew-strewn strands.

Leaves whirl across rain streaked roads, scampering from curb to curb. 

Fat ribbons of mud lick up her dented arches. 

But still she sits. 

Unworried. 

Ever patient. 

Time kisses her with rusty lips,

Stealing chips of paint away from mass production metal. 

And still this little workhorse will start,

Faultily, grumpily, squeaking into life.

Wheezing at 60mph, but humming merrily at 25. 

She keeps going.

Till the very end.