THE DRIVING LESSON

I first learnt to drive in my brother's bedroom,
sitting on a Meccano box planted in the middle of the rug.
"Back straight, head up!" Feet resting on Lego pedals,
I drove awkwardly: hands ok, feet twisting around each other,
as he barked out instructions like a cross Sergeant Major.
My knuckles turned white as I gripped Father's spare gear stick.
"Look ahead up the road!" I stared into the dark space
beneath his desk. What at I wondered?
He positioned himself in front of me. "Imagine I'm an oncoming car."
He swerved as I approached him in the middle
of a non-existent road. "Remember to check your mirrors."
He held them up, but I could see only the ceiling in them,
as I drove on the rug against invisible traffic
and concentrated on changing gear.
"Don't forget the clutch!" he yelled.
It was so much to remember
for a ten-year-old's constantly wandering mind.
But I persevered, all the while
dreaming of getting my PSV license next, easy,
and driving a school bus - or a coach ultimately -
further than the high street, the far side of Surrey even;
the farthest reaches of Europe...