The Thames lay out of reach,

I cut through from the road

in Clark's sandals, short trousers,

past the backs of shadowed shanties on stilts.


Reaching up for an apple

fell into stingers and brambles,

defiant, disbelieving the pain.


Finally there was the river

framed by green arbours

fingers of willow draped low,

a flotilla of drifting blossom.


Upstream was where the rich people lived.

Mum and Dad were out of sight behind me,

finding time for themselves.

We had travelled by deep green bus

at a brisk pace,

the welcome smell of oil and leather

a robust reminder of escape

under clapperboard cabin skies

then ice cream, lemonade,

deck chairs, sun.


Walking back by way of Magna Carta field

this time they went on ahead;

I missed the proper path,

legs bogged down

sandals gripped by mud

arms flailing,

tears of anger and abandonment.


We wondered where you were,

said my mother

suppressing a snigger of amusement,.

After all it had been a good day.




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Wed 3rd Jun 2020 14:21

Thanks for your like Stephen and Graham, appreciated. I thought this would be a welcome change from the current trend for poetry in the more sombre vein (understandable of course). Sadly, entering into the spirit of that tends for me to be depressing, as poems never provide a practical answer, though no doubt that's what we'd all like. TV comedy can help if that works, but mental anguish should be guarded against in my opinion if at all possible.
I'll get my coat -- again.


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Mon 1st Jun 2020 18:12

A trip down memory lane, not a word of a lie involved! R. Whites coincidently had their offices not two miles from the poem's setting, in Staines. Lyons Maid had the monopoly in cinemas, delivered by buxom ladies during the interval. Sigh of nostalgia.
Thanks for reading Graham.

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Graham Sherwood

Mon 1st Jun 2020 16:10

This has 1950's smeared all over it Ray. I trust it was R white's lemonade and Lyons Maid ice cream to finish off.

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