Harrowden Lane

Local russet coloured stone tops our bridge
It crumbles freely as we poke the aging mortar
with the lethal jagged spears
of our chewed biros,
the blue/grey patina on the capstones
smudged with generations of penknife graffiti,
set out like family trees.

I’d forgotten the boredom between trains,
although I’m sure it never ever rained then
and how often we’d stare back along the lines
the perfect perspective
to the other bridge,
the village station
where our innocent mischief
would not be ignored,
“what you buggers up to”?
hence, we, all four,
preferred our bridge a mile away.

Those long hot, sticky summer days
We’d ring our eyes with cupped fingers
like curled leaf
binoculars, and stare like Jack Hawkins
into the distant shimmering heat haze
that we imagined to be fog,
sure as shit the Bismark would come
rolling spectre-like beneath our feet.

Bang on time,
if we’d had a clock we’d have known
a distant grey shadow filling the down arch of the station bridge.
Train, yes! train, bloody train
Steam? Yes bloody steam!
action stations!
Who’s turn?
take mine as well
and four pennies lying flat
like chocolate buttons,
tremble on the bristling line.
Up, and our heads dangle over the rough-hewn parapet,
first one to move is chicken.
A Brit, 70012
And John of Gaunt thunders through.

Derek is the chicken,
says he slipped
whilst our hot faces stink of steam and grease.
Sod it,
already got it,
underlined here in ink.
There’s no squash left
and only crusts with the faintest blush of jam.
“I’m off after the next one”.
And we three secretly conspire
to hold Derek above the parapet
a cruel forfeit to repay his dare.

© Graham Sherwood 2/2014