of all that fun ago
a summer’s day
of a walk to the signal box
there by the little stream where
the sun is a pastel green of chickweed
and grass as high as the
bumpers on my feet
a spring in my step for soon
the tadpoles will have legs now
what do they think of my grass straw
sucking the spring water as sweet as day light
slipping my memory like a winter scarf
way past the engine shed
with an engine on the turntable in
the non-shadow of steam and then
quarries of hand warm russet stone
between the brick well and six pit junction
kneels the little pluck full of sticklebacks
tickled into jars to be boy tanked
the railway sleepers splinter warm
tarred in the marshalling yard
and bookended by brick chimneys
long since defunct
tunnelling under roads
long since defunct
under railway lines shining in their ruin
far and away hammer the trains to ears
upon the rails as warm as trepidation
every day’s start an adventure in serendipity
an errant compass attractive in its possibilities
errant naughty the strategy
footfall the tactic
the tacit agreement that for youth
wherever is whenever you say it is
when every splash in the mirror returns
another summer sky
another explosion of the exuberance
of flaring do
you remember me saying that to me
was it me
was i really there with me in those times
not all that fun ago
