Skid

I'd been driving through snow, past the Top-of-the-World;
consumed by cash-flow, the contingency funds
when I first hit ice and panicked the brakes.

Round I went, a full-three-sixty.

I fought, a fool, against the inevitable crunch,
against the windscreen shattering like a business empire.
My limited experience told me to take control

but the slope kept me true, held my momentum,
and by my second full-turn I was gathering pace,
still finding space between abandoned cars.

Don't fight your road!
Steer into the skid!

It was my Father's voice.

An expert in acceptance.
Of making your way when there's only one choice.

So I relaxed and reached down to turn up the radio.

The view through the windscreen
kept panning and panning,
giddy with the grace of a frost-spangled dancer.

With the lightest of jolts I was back to my road.

The car facing forward; engine in gear
I was driving. On to the factory before I had occasion to stop.

The rest of my world span for another nine months,
through nightmares, receivers, abusive directors
before they decided
it was 'Time to Go!'.

Even now, I still clasp two fistfuls of failure.

Don't fight your road!

A skid's never over

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Copyright © Gavin Stewart 1996-2006

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