A town in Lincolnshire, England.
The Meadows Summer 2001
A mile or more, all downhill
through the still sleeping town
of yellowed Barnack stone
and Collywestern slate.
Cats under cars and curtains drawn
awaiting the daily eight o’clock call.Tracks lay bare in the summer snow
from the old mill gate,
to the silvered third meadow.
The closely cropped grass laden with dew,
soaks the canvas of my holiday shoes
that carry the marks of a young boys summer.Black and white cows stand in collusion,
raising their heads to stare with suspicion
at the rattling, squeaking rust orange bike.
Laden with rods, basket and nets
propelled with all haste by a half running step
with no regard for their silence.The tattered remains of the morning shroud
hangs in the hollows and palm of the meadow.
Sentries of hawthorn, alder and willow
stand proud in their verdant regalia;
their uniforms studded with droplets of water
left by the lingering caress of the mist.Looking down from the iron bridge,
the last crossing from Stamford to Tinwell
where the river narrows.
Trailing skirts of velvet weed, swirl to
reveal shifting gravel in the clearer shallows
and the forays of the braver minnows
beneath the bridge, where the river runs deep.Without float or spinner, weight or lead
I cast the single hook, keeping it low,
baited with the crust of yesterdays bread,
to drop under the bough of the willow tree.
This is the haunt of my prized quarry,
the gangsters and hoodlums of the summer river.As the ripples fade and memories die
and the visions of youthful summers
return to rest behind my eyes.
The midnight song of the blackbird illuminates the room
where once you laid your head, but as I stretch out my hand
all I feel is the cool of the empty bed.I lay silent in a world far away from now
where once again I sit by this river,
casting a line which ties me to nature
and an innocence of youth now gone.
If once more we could discover each other
I would meet you there and never return.Poem by Stuart Brooks
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