A Day At New Brighton
It was an early start,
that is when it happened,
dad decided the sun called,
edging it’s face at our window,
teasing a child’s expectation.
Summer high sky emptied,
we walked “bagged up”,
to the bus stop outpost,
past silent terraced houses,
full of unsilent children.
After which it seemed forever,
a green bus crawling across town,
dawdling at each and every bus stop,
coughing up hills, idling at corners,
until all sweets were finally eaten.
We talked, tickling magic senses,
to anticipation of the river,
that long famous river,
called us to it’s longest day,
in a summer kaleidoscope.
As the ferry crossed the Mersey,
I could smell the sea spray,
as the ferry dipped it’s nose,
under that restless white wash,
her bow lifting, then lilting,
it’s uncertain way to the shore,
where a million grains of sand,
awaited a treasured day’s play,
we ran on to a different world,
diluting under that sun.
Now it seems quite strange,
those black and white images,
wide spaces, salty air and cockles,
the length of that journey,
strength of our parents,
the sense of that goodness.
Our childhood bathed in another world,
that our children will never touch,
it seems right, and fitting,
that world, under that sun.
By Clive Griffiths