You were not in my head, but a Landcruiser purred by;
Splattered screen, muddied tires and I put you at the wheel.
I heard your voice, a smoky laugh, a tale to tell
about the wheels, the speed, the rally.

So, now I read again the tributes;  
Clumsy words from men not used to outpouring,
with whom you’d skidded along forest floors; raced to the line;
grid referenced hidden tracks and Little Chefs.

“Sorely missed by all the team”
“Condolences.”  “I’ll think of you.”
“Burns Night not the same without our Englishman.”
“Tartan Control is clear.”

Mud is dried, flags and barriers stacked away.
The deer reclaim the forest, motors a distant whisper.
Radios, all whine and hiss, tune for the call:
“Tartan 6 is clear and free to stand down. Over.”