The Yellow Light on the Lorry (Flasher)

Lyrics

[Intro]

[Verse 1]
In the book from the mail boat, dated nineteen fourteen,
Florence Lawrence, born eighteen eighty-six,
sat in her Toronto garage, November chill at seven degrees Celsius,
fingers on the brass-handled arm, gritty with dust.
She lifts it, signals left, a yellow bulb blinks against the dusk,
four thirty PM, sun dipping low.
No lorries here on Point Nemo, but I see it,
the Ford Model T with wooden cargo bed,
converted for delivery, arm pivoting out.

[Chorus]
Flasher, yellow light on the lorry side,
blinking like a cautious eye,
warning the road behind, turn coming,
Florence's invention, no bell inside anymore,
but I imagine the tinkle, lost to time.
Flasher, you guide without words,
in the gray afternoon, oil and flux in the air.

[Verse 2]
She was twenty-eight then, actress turned inventor,
quote from the magazine: little arm that lifts to show the way.
Workshop bench, oil-stained wood, rye bread sandwich half-eaten,
mustard on tin plate, forgotten in the test.
Soldering iron with wooden grip connects the wires,
wrench tightens bolts, breath visible in the cold.
Primary source, New York Times, November nineteen fourteen,
new device for motorists, arm and electrical contacts.
Patent sketch, pivoting mechanism, no assistants named,
their hands missing from the record.

[Bridge]
Strange fact, early ones had buzzers, tinkling with each blink,
like a joke in the cab, now silent.
I read it under the kumquat tree, Pemba nodding,
no roads here, but the light flashes in my mind.

[Verse 3]
Feel of cold metal under fingers, rough and real,
smell of soldering flux, sharp tang with motor oil,
damp wool coat by the door.
Gaps in the story, where she first drove it,
personal spark of the idea, lost like unnamed mechanics.
But the yellow light endures, on imagined lorries,
blinking across oceans we never cross.

[Outro]
Flasher, yellow guardian of the turn,
from Florence's hand to my quiet island dream.