setting off we felt fearless,

cow parsley had narrowed the lane

in those heady July days, 

whipping our bare white legs red raw

as we hurtled recklessly downhill 

towards ‘our’ bridge,

trainspotting the only thought,

bike chains churning, clanking

brake blocks smoking and

squealing like banshees,

no-one owned up to being ‘frit’,

that perilous descent

double-daring, egging each 

other on to certain oblivion,

arses up, chins down on handlebars

in breakneck downhill races,

with only one hope, that today 

would be the day to see 45581

Bihar and Orissa, 

the only Jubilee Class missing 

from our dog-eared Ian Allan books,

the bridge crumbled easily

if we jagged the ageing mortar

with our lethal chewed biro daggers,

trainspotting was 95% boredom

and 5% exhilaration, copping

Scots Jubes Brits and Crostis

a young boy’s first orgasm

in those halcyon days,

the russet capstones bore

generations of penknife graffiti

scratched out like family trees,

whilst waiting for trains,

the mesmeric perspective of the rails

disappeared to a point

in both directions, upline and down, 

bookended by distant arches

Finedon Station one way, Nest Lane t’other,

on our bridge, in those long 

sticky sultry summer days

we’d ring our eyes with cupped fingers,

to make pretend binoculars and

stare into the shimmering heat haze, 

like Jack Hawkins, sure as shit 

the Bismarck would break cover 

any minute, as four pennies sizzled

on the nearest rail like chocolate buttons

awaiting their crushing fate,

under the next snorting behemoth

emerging from the distance,

we’d play chicken,

heads dangling over the parapet

all for the chance of a face-full 

of steam and grease

making us hungry, with no bottled 

squash and only gnawed crusts left

it being nowhere near dinnertime,

*

( From ‘Knowing my Place’ a collection by Graham Sherwood)

© Graham R Sherwood 2/25