Boy’s Own

~

four old pennies buried 

in an Oxo tin, while playing

Treasure Island, I never found,

an old ex-army khaki groundsheet

thrown over the wash line,

became an expedition for 

Scott of the Antarctic

for days on end,

with the half a lorry-load 

of wooden beer crates my

father had procured and stacked

precariously against the top 

fence for fire lighters, I built 

a Spitfire to dogfight Germans,

the old dark hut rammed to 

the gunnels with useless 

grown-up stuff that we

were forbidden to enter was

our Journey to the Earth’s Core

adventure, with torches firmly

strapped to our heads by

our snake buckled belts,

but my finest hour, weather

permitting was of course in the 

entry between us and next door,

where with a splash of father’s 

Brylcreem I became Peter May

or Denis Compton saving the Ashes

or else fiery Freddie Trueman 

winning them single-handed,

we didn’t need to go far in

those endless summer days,

Boys Own adventures with my

sister by my side

*

© Graham Richard Sherwood 8/24