Photograph
August 1969, the park, down by the lake
the summer afternoon draws to a close
laughing, screaming, splashing times, our own fun we would make
pure happiness, with torn and muddy clothes.
M.V Britannic was the boat by hand my Dad had made,
the real one once had taken him to war,
at first we took a length of string and tied it to the prow
and took turns towing it around the shore.
Then Dad fitted a motor, so in circles it would plough
(unless the boaters caught it with an oar).
When gusts of wind would catch it, then it's course would often change
and the chances of retrieving it were slim,
you'd have to reach out with a stick when it would come in range
and that explains how I first learned to swim.
Fast forwards almost fifty years, I still sit on that bank
on summer afternoons, often alone
as children pass me, zombie-like their faces seeming blank,
their fingers tapping on their mobile phones.
What summer memories will they have in years ahead,
as in ignorance they let precious days slip?
Thanks to a photograph the ones of mine have not yet fled,
and guess what?
We've still got that little ship.
Photograph- Me, my younger brother Clive, and the good ship Brittanic, August 1969.
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