It’s strange what we think of

as life rolls by – for me as a kid

it was the river Alt, which cut

through the fields of a farmer’s

land where the nifty nymphs

danced with damsel flies, and

newts and the frogs had a

merry old time, ducking from

sight when we all climbed down

viewing activity nature displayed

in a random way or so it seemed

in the aftermath of the second

world war, which had come and

gone, with a fine new estate built

nearby, and the river Alt spawned

small fish fry, with minnows and

water boatmen zigging past and a

lay of the land being post war new

to the kids like me of the city crew

as we sprouted up to teenage days

and the girls with their curls would

be part of the scene as we lolled on

the banks when life was serene

and we’d spot the robins landing

on reeds, snapping up ladybirds

for midday feeds for the chicks in

the nest in an obscure place and

we monitored eggs in a moor

hen’s clutch in the days when it

seemed we were heaven blessed.

We learned to be artful when

game keepers showed and we’d

run full pelt from his leather belt.

Now I listen to a tick-tock clock as

I think of a lassie with the batik frock.




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John Coopey

Mon 17th Feb 2020 11:22

Very evocative, P. Brought back memories of my own childhood playing by the River Leen. And a rare appearance of an old favourite - the rhyming couplet to finish.

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Don Matthews

Mon 17th Feb 2020 09:16

I like your style Philipos......

Frances Macaulay Forde

Mon 17th Feb 2020 01:57

Yes, Philipos, a good poem indeed. Full of authenticity. 😃

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keith jeffries

Sun 16th Feb 2020 20:46


another poem with a strain of nostalgia running through it, recalling a time which few will have experienced or know anything about. My cousin and I would clamber down to a narrow stream where we would try to catch sticklebacks in a jam jar. A nearby incline led up to a huge dumping ground which was full of broken world war two fighter aircraft, shell cases, and other items of war memorabilia. I remember climbing into the cockpit of a fighter which had no fuselage and then, with our sticklebacks, walking home for bread and jam sandwiches with a pot of tea.

You style of writing is staccato but works well as each line clicks into the next to keep the thread weaving.

A good poem indeed
Thank you for this


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