Trabant Gondolas, Tarpaulin and Frost

I found these gondolas unbolted from their arms and laid out in rows on the concrete apron of a winter storage yard, each one tilted slightly on its side like something sleeping. The sodium lamp overhead threw a flat amber wash across the fibreglass shells — old fairground reds and yellows gone almost the same colour as rust. There is something about the way these things wait that I keep coming back to: no passengers, no music, just the weight of the machine being honest about what it is.