on the great hem of Heathrow in summertime

we set off from Ashford to Stanwell

Sunday sure - footed,

my parents ahead,

my brother and me behind.

"Daddy, daddy, what's that for"  I asked -

no answer came, his mind a trick of the light

a prism of serious concerns.

 

The reservoir confronted us and then

in slow procession the prefabs.

"Daddy, daddy, where does that go?"

Again no answer came.  I didn't understand

that's how a young boy learns.

 

His head bent down intent

finally we left the road,

father mother brother and me

to trace a field ditch of rushes old prams

and lazy water and then we saw the steeple

amongst the thronging ferns.

 

Off to our right the fresh ploughed earth

a horizon full of market gardens and the pong and rise

of small aircraft,  Dad breathing heavily

cigarette smoke the only conversation.

Through the church gate and there was Stanwell

the back way, flanked and protecting the ancient elm,

hove - to at the Five Bells, we waited our turns

 

with hot knees for drinks all round

on the slatted metal circular seat under the tree,

whilst hooded doorways settled in

their dotage with clustered eyebrows

of ivy, as unchanged as a legacy

Before London Airport began to shift its bulk

and push us all towards the suburban eternity

equal opportunity and a prism of serious concerns.