It is a life,

It is a life,

Less demanding

For the earnest schoolboy

Too young for work,

Discovering the country

Following the tumble of a mountain stream

Where it was still possible to jump

From one bank to the other

Catching tiddlers

With a piece of bread on a thread.

Whistling down the wind

Without being told to shut up.

There was never any chance

Of being caught napping

By a supervisor on the back shift

With coal tubs

Full of slack and slurry waiting

To be tipped.

Striking a light

For a broken cigarette

Hidden in the turn-up

Of a ragged trouser leg

Thick with dust,

Men have been killed for less.

If the Canary escapes

The man with the matches

Is a difference-maker.

There is never any fun to be had

In taking chances

Too late for some

Light a candle

Say a little prayer

If that is your poison.

Pigeons are companions

Of freedom

A metaphor, worthy of release.

The narrative of childhood

Is an escape

A reminder of what can be lost

Before it is found.

And no direction leads home

Once the river has grown

Into a monster

Too wide to cross

Without a ferry

Or the where-with-all to build a bridge.

If only we were all the sons of Telford

Perhaps any obstacle

Would be an opportunity

To make history.

The iron resolve to succeed

Borne on the wind

The desire to run headlong

Downhill

Jumping fallen trees

Shouting wildly

Feeling anything is possible

If only

For the time it takes

To break free

Of the convention to conform,

Little boys should

Follow in their father’s footsteps

All the way to the end.

How unfitting a mantra

Queuing up for death at the hands

Of a turncoat with a whip

A general in a trenchcoat

An Admiral on a ship.

Push the river, jump the brook

Turn the page

Read the book.