by Linnet Phoenix
for Romain Grosjean
I know the angels of November.
Those that hover as low cloud
over the undulating motorways
on pre-darkened autumnal evenings.
I have felt their wings catch me
as my car was clipped left rear
by an undertaking Ford Scorpio.
A terrifying loss of control
as my steering wheel grew teeth
snapped at my wrists,
spun hard and fast
lock-end left to lock-end right.
Time itself moved to slow motion
as the seconds screamed with me.
At 90 miles per hour
the car should have flipped and rolled,
a steel gymnast on a tarmac mat.
Yet we commandeered three lanes
bucked and shied like a bronco
released fresh out the crush.
After eight wild swings
I came to rest in hard shoulder,
the line of headlights waited
an audience stood well back.
My fingers were melded on
a becalmed steering wheel.
It happened twenty years ago.
Today, watching Bahrain footage
I saw his car flung in the barrier,
torn in half, engulfed in a fireball.
The red flags of safely raised
as he walked out the flames
with only burns to his hands.
A titanium halo hailed his saviour.
I wondered if they stole his voice
for just an hour, as they did mine.
Linnet Phoenix is a poet who currently resides in North Somerset, England. She has been writing poetry for years. Her work has previously been published in ImpSpired Magazine, Heroin Love Songs, Punk Noir Magazine, Open Skies Quarterly, and others. She has poems upcoming in Poetica Review, Dreamscape (Open Skies), and ImpSpired. She also enjoys horse-riding in rainstorms.
