He longed
to be a cricketer on Kew Green
those
weekend afternoons in summers past,
Would
hope the car might stop for enough time
In
traffic beyond the bridge. If all fell right,
He’d
dream of how he’d learn the taste of beer
From
Mortlake Brewery’s scents of malt and smoke.
A father’s
car, set deep with Irish smoke
Fizzed through
a Sunday morning’s London green.
They
looked in wonder at the gleaming beer
Which lit
the suburbs up as they buzzed past,
A unity,
a city in the right
Repose of
mind and golden glow of time.
Their
mother took the back way every time
She’d
learnt her routes to skirt the heavy smoke.
At Chalker’s
Corner, she turned left then right.
She’d
learnt, no longer red and blue and green,
To leave
the high road to the young. The past
was
drowning in a reservoir of beer.
Those
river pubs which taught him love for beer
Unchanged
through seasons, picturesque through time,
Reran key
scenes from father’s chequered past
A pack of
Prides, a tall tale and a smoke.
He sank
into the evening’s cushioned green
And,
mostly, bore no damage from the rite.
The boys are
running moves to left and right
And
bragging of their escapades in beer
On some
south London park bench running green.
He’s
counting down his youth, adrift in time
As curtained
boys seek refuge for a smoke
And call
out their contempt as they slouch past.
The tower
blocks and pepper pot hang past
These children
borne on tide of human right
To peace.
The parallel woes lost in smoke
Are just
a barren house of rows and beer.
They
cross the bridge, the back way’s hope and time
And catch
a minute’s cricket on Kew Green.
West
London, past and present, full of beer
Which tastes
just right when it arrives on time
In clouds
of summer smoke on river green.
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