as eleven-year olds we cycled
tear-arsing along, head down
arse up for six miles
the A6 far less perilous then,
we’d throw our bikes in the nettles
at the bottom-end near the lake
and creep in stealthily through
a hidden gap in the hedge,
a bottle of squash, a sandwich
and a biscuit, the day’s victuals
and clandestine free entry of course,
the amusements, were much better
there than in our local park
sporting bigger slides, cooler roundabouts
taller swings, a perfect playground
where we could stay free all day,
half a century has slipped by and
we’re doing it again minus bikes
no longer adventurous little boys,
now a self-titled bunch of old chums
the Old Grey Walkers,
five-hundred years-worth of mischief
on a voyage of re-discovery,
rekindling old school friendships,
revisiting old haunts to warm old hearts,
a veritable “Cardiac Camino’,
most of which are already well-medicated,
Mike bravely leading the way
with his new pacemaker,
the rest of us stopping inquisitively
to point out old familiar sights
and surreptitiously catch our breath
*
(Wicksteed Park revisited)
© Graham R Sherwood 01/23
grahamrichardsherwood.co.uk 