On Wensum Bridge

Saturday afternoons were for running,
Three of us, all slim as newly sharpened pencils,
would run through the countryside, jumping over fences
like the most hotly tipped at Aintree.
On Wensum Bridge
we stopped for sandwiches

at a pub that had framed photographs of cricket teams
our landlord in the centre waving his bat to the camera
fourteen men all saying “cheese.”
Our run took us over cobblestones
through a cemetery
past the Victorian homes and sycamore trees
until we arrived at George’s farm

where we rested our feet on bales of hay,
drank bottled cider.
When I moved away
I started to rebuild Wensum Bridge
over a river in my new village.
Sometimes I stand there, watching people throw sticks over the side,
and run to the other, as they reappeared upstream
like jaded marathon runners
straining their necks for the photo finish.