Zorro’s children

 

 

on rainy Saturday mornings

a well-spent ninepence

was all it took

to leave a headscarfed mother

in some chattering queue

for luncheon meat

or lardy cake

and step inside the transport

taking us

to Planet Zog

Or Dead Man’s canyon

via Keystone or some cartoon city

where,

fortified with Mojos

and Mambo juice

in strange shaped cartons

we’d jostle for the back row stalls

or balcony

pudding basin, plaits and pigtails

the order of the day

de-rigueur long shorts

and gabardines in any colour

as long as it was grey

and before curtain up

those “birthday boys and girls”

paraded on the stage

to claim

their prize

of dolly mixtures and

Turkish delight to

whistles and catcalls

from the

older,

bolder boys

 

settling as the lights

go down
we’d whisper theories as to

how old Hopalong could possibly

escape

that snorting stampede

or Flash dodge

last week’s meteor storm

without a single scratch

and for the next two hours

sit in awe

of granite jaws

and iron fists

- unless the film broke ��"

“Put another bob in”

“Ouch! Who threw that?”

- CLAP! - CLAP! ��" CLAP! ��"

“Sit down! Be quiet! Get off those seats

or you’ll be out!”

 

but who cared?

we were invincible

and bore

the mark of Zorro

and, after tumbling into daylight

had all afternoon

to be

pilots of the future

fight the Mekon

eat cow pie

and shoot Apaches

from the back seat

of the country bus

 

so,

when my credits roll

and the final flickering reel

is run

let no one sing

Abide With Me’s

or spout

pomp and piety

but to the strains

of some rumbling arpeggio

and crescendo

write on the falling curtain

these silver words

 

“TO BE CONTINUED!”