of all that fun ago

 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