Hulks and other dead things
The car sits in the field,
rusted, wheels long salvaged
and removed, a relic
of road trips and romance,
of families simply living from place to place
without thinking of it all,
happy in their chariot,
the car a beautiful thing,
gleaming with a color long lost to weather.
It is a thing of another age,
all fenders and curved steel,
impossibly large, somehow still imposing
even in death, like a warrior on a funeral pyre,
you look at it – you cannot help it –
and wonder how it could be,
how this marvel, made for glory,
lies still.
We were not made for rust, you and I.
We move. We live, We refuse to succumb to stillness,
always fleeing the inevitable
we stay impossibly busy hoping
eternity never reaches us,
fooling ourselves, or at least trying,
right to the end.
Quarry House 
Tom, Found you! Such a strong poem, simple but stunning images. I esp. like the lines “A relic of road trips and romances,” and “all fenders and curved steel.” And yes, always “impossibly busy.”
That’s how I’ve lived to keep away my demons too. And I too love to be moved by a photo, as
you have been here. One thought, nothing in this poem is “dead,” as your title suggests. You bring everything to life. Back to life. In a wonderful way. Might just consider leaving that word out of the title. Nancy