#amwriting #poem #poetry Then

Then

As a child, I would hold my mother's hand,
or the handle of the pram, as we walked
through the graveyard by the river to the fair.
We always went late for one reason or another.
So we'd pass the children coming back with balloons,
or stuffed animals, or goldfish in stringed plastic bags
dangled from candyfloss pink fingers, of sugared souls
fit to burst, at which had been their favourite ride.
Or the terror instilled by the skeleton who lurked,
between cigarette breaks, inside the Ghost Train.
I would read off the carved names, until we came
to Braithwaite, when at last the beating waltzers tune
drummed low through the spring leafing Elms,
as we broke the parallax of the far bank terrace,
still blackened by the wheezing of long departed trains.
And there, we saw the rides laid out. Their lights first catching,
in the lilac of late afternoon, between sunshine and rain,
the promise of a dangerous glow. And. I'd kick stones.