He walked the tracks

He walked the tracks

At weekends

Hopping from sleeper to sleeper

Counting the missed beats

As failure

Wishing for a future

Where the sky was blue

The hills were green

And the air clean

Hoping his dad would

Miss him

Just enough to find him

They could walk together for a while

He would teach him how to fish

Hunt rabbits

Tell him about the war

Talk to him like a human

Without a scowl

A rumbling growl

The flat of a hand,

Hard upon his cheek

A stinging rebuke

An early to bed, with a sore head

So much for vinegar and brown paper.

When would he become

A racing driver

Or an inside-left, a number ten

Like Pele.

One day he would have his own ‘telly’

He would play as much music

As he wanted to

Nobody would tell him what to do

Unless he fell in love

Although that sounded far fetched

Also, a wee bit previous

For a little scamp

Barely out of short trousers

Dying for some new clothes

As he would never fill the hand me downs

Of his brother

Who was a giant

In skintight jeans and crepes,

Who still wore a long coat

The deadbeat Teds called a drape.

Purple-people-eaters.

Teds rarely liked the Beatles

Or the Stones

Which was more sacrilegious

Than black cat bones

Buried at midnight,

Less rebellious for its conformity

To a grown-up Edwardian norm,

As unnecessarily scary

As a DA haircut

And more than a teeny-weeny bit

Pork-pie hat,

If you ask me.