If we ever go to Mars it will be in cars
With rusty exhausts and failing springs.
There will be a smell of vinyl
And traces of lichen around the windows,
Which we’ll badly want to open,
As we bounce across the Helas Basin.
When we’re tired we’ll park
In yet another quiet spot,
Sipping cocoa from a tartan flask.
You’ll complain about my pipe smoke
And I’ll shake my head,
Blow perfect, spinning rings
To break upon the windscreen,
Over by the nearside wing.
In the Martian dusk we’ll recline our seats,
Cosy beneath your mother’s patchwork quilt.
We’ll name stars for lost cars:
Cortina, Allegro, Orion, Sierra,
Morris Minor, Morris Major,
Vauxhall Nova, Capri.
Earth will rise, our evening star,
We’ll celebrate with cucumber and Marmite sandwiches
And remark upon the metaphor,
Of the stray green disk that fell
To the Martian dust of the footwell floor.