In the balmy summer of ‘67
every kid on Concrete Canyon
with hammer, nails and imagination
was on the look out of for wheels.
No stone unturned for a bit of wood,
clothes lines reduced by a likely foot
to make a makeshift killing machine.
A beast to beat the need for speed
from the heated depths of childish dreams,
let loose from the top of the ‘big hill’
to trundle, freefalling into memory.
Beating a rhythm, a concrete slab symphony
of speeding childhood innocent idiocy
with no brakes and dodgy steering.
Wide eyed careless bravery
whooping up a slipstream
and flying off the pavement.
Achieving zero gravity
and crashing in a hedge.
Then, armed with grazed proficiency
and senseless knocked camaraderie,
grimy grins passed face to face
would end the passé trolley race
and tie them all together
to make a trolley train.
And with the bravest first in line
in summer shorts and old t-shirts,
thoughtless of bare arms and legs,
they’d trundle back atop the hill
to fly back down again.
Such was childhood wild and brave.
Such was mine, seriously grazed.
All Rights Reserved