Warm weather or cold.
The river flowed through the reeds,
Over rocks
And around rubbish dumps.
Willow trees grew tall and strong,
Dipping soft branches in the water
Our feet could not enter;
For bilharzia ruled those waterways.
Willow branches and reeds
Woven into huts for clubhouses;
Crowns for our aspirations
And camouflage for hiding in plain sight.
Could a child ask for more?
A windmill,
Churning dreams
That reached the clouds.
In those strong willow branches,
A clubhouse
In the sky.
New babies,
New pram wheels
For the next coach
On our soapbox train.
Going nowhere,
Going everywhere,
Going fast;
The whole team,
Together.
Together, we learnt and laughed and cried.
Together, until one had to leave, to die,
To go to stay in our treehouse in the sky.
But while our feet keep walking
And our river keeps flowing,
His memory lives on,
Long and strong;
Woven with those willow branches
And muddy boots.
Running along the river of time.
READ MORE POEMS BY SHARON HEANEY STANSFIELD