The Thames lay out of reach,

I cut through from the road

in Clark's sandals, short trousers,

past the backs of shadowed shanties on stilts.

 

Reaching up for an apple

fell into stingers and brambles,

defiant, disbelieving the pain.

 

Finally there was the river

framed by green arbours

fingers of willow draped low,

a flotilla of drifting blossom.

 

Upstream was where the rich people lived.

Mum and Dad were out of sight behind me,

finding time for themselves.

We had travelled by deep green bus

at a brisk pace,

the welcome smell of oil and leather

a robust reminder of escape

under clapperboard cabin skies

then ice cream, lemonade,

deck chairs, sun.

 

Walking back by way of Magna Carta field

this time they went on ahead;

I missed the proper path,

legs bogged down

sandals gripped by mud

arms flailing,

tears of anger and abandonment.

 

We wondered where you were,

said my mother

suppressing a snigger of amusement,.

After all it had been a good day.