Four of Plenty

Cricket on Shanklin's shore

bowling onto rippled sand

while the water is out.

Grandad surprises Dad

with a slow leg spin.

Dad’s eye for the ball must

have looked the other way.

He always beat us bros.

The boundary creeps closer,

fours easy now the tide’s turned.

Time for ice cream in two-bob-a-day

deck chairs on the soft crowded sand,

elbows nearly touching neighbours.

 

Lying on yellow grass somewhere

on Dartmoor’s edges.

Or was it the New forest?

Heat hangs over pressing us down.

Still and silent like a flannel sheet.

Not risking a roll in the hay hidden

from the road behind a 100E.

The pill’s just been invented:

married couples only.

And the barber’s snarky smile

cools the ardour. A sweaty

fumble sufficed, we lay on

our backs hand-in-hand listening

to a Skylark motionless above,

as yet not endangered.

 

Walking the lusty Soho streets

on the way to the Helvetia

for an afternoon session

behind the bar.

Making ends meet

in cooling unairco’d shade. Serving

warm ale to American tourists

and cold German hock

to wannabe Soho Queens

while Jagger gyrates in Hyde Park

wearing a frock for Brian.

 

Mowing the new grown fescue with

Dad’s old donated Qualcast Panther.

Red flowers adorn our first Runner crop.

Every penny spoken for with paint

barely dry on the new bungalow.

A roof over our heads

and weight on our shoulders.

 

Image courtesy Wiki