Rob the train (child’s memory of Fleetwood)

The dunes of the beach are perfect for this

spaghetti western play. We’re 8 or 9,

just runts from Chaucer Juniors, playing out.

Clint Eastwood is our hero – we’re all unnamed.

The mini rail tourist track which seems to stretch for miles,

natural border through the sand of Mexico and the green of the way back to Missiissipi – or the River Wyre.  A peninsular all the same.

The whistle blows and we lie in wait for our ambush in the foliage of the pitch and putt.

The solitary ticket hut is the wild chaparral - Dodge City. It’s perfect!

We’ve blocked the track with real stones – not imaginary like our flights of play.

We could get into trouble for this we know. Real outlaws.

The train is moving from its dull breeze block shed.

Will it be armed? Grey or blue?

Or will they be  multi swap shop lovers aboard holding ice creams that melt meticulously onto their suntanned hands – we had hot summers then.

Chunt! Huff! Punt! and whistle! We load our cap guns. Some of us take stones. Careful boys.

The train is coming through the tight wooded bend – perfect place for a hold up.

The beast brakes as it sees the hump of stones we’ve laid. Screeches to a halt!

The driver curses and leaps off his toy engine pride and joy.

People look on bemused as we fire caps and stone lob our way with a few swear words and make haste for the cover of the hills – the mount.

“Little bastards…” comes the scream but we have the dollars.

We’re rich with the innocence of it all. Fade off into the sunset and the dust storms.

I guess kids just don’t know how to play today.