Just like the rest, who wish to take the air,
I partake in the new legislative habit,
by putting on my fabric shield, and scrubbing
my dutiful meat hooks, in order to walk.
I leave the Spring, and head to the Sconce,
where Charles and Oliver had their bloody chat,
though it’s far stiller now, as the wind gently
brushes through the blades of the grass.
I climb the hills; where the cannons fired,
and then I stride with the Devon, where
swans join my promenade, and our eyes
make contact, and though we have a lack
of language, we understand each other’s need
to energise. After this, I then salute dear Tom,
a friend long gone, but who is never forgotten,
and my mind’s eye hopes that his spirit saw.
I quit the Sconce, to head to the Castle and
to the Riverside, where I played to thousands,
but in order to do this a detour is made via
Millgate, where I worked a three man job,
where my heart was weakened, but my mind
was toughened and tested, and I look up at the
window of Melford House, where I sat, with
a compounded thought of nostalgic tension,
then familiar faces pleasantly interrupt the
moment, and we greet each other, with I hope
a mutual relief; that it was nice to see one another.
The fleeting instance passes, and my mind
briefly splits into two, it was truly nice to see
them, but with the long time that has gone by;
not seeing them, they were like ghosts of my past,
thus, the second I looked up, it was horror first,
but then it became the friendly encounter as it was
supposed to be, as it should be, in such hard times as these.
I now reach the death place of King John, old
Newark Castle, and I survey the grounds, with
the mental pretence; that I am one of his courtiers,
reminiscing of what unfolded, and conceptualizing,
of what really happened, but then the modern world
floods back to me, as the siren of a nearby ambulance
whirs, then my feet take me past the bandstand, where
I make a left out of the gate, to tread across Trent Bridge,
and the river is very high, so high, I could give a duck
a high five, but I won’t, as I’ve been told it’s rude to play
with your food, so I continue on with my hands still dry.
My peepers look right to the sunken Barge, where
the pints, the wine and the squashed frogs flowed,
and they will again, as these churches in disguise, the pubs,
will open their arms once again, for my embrace, where
I can vent, I can share, I can cry and laugh, but I will hold
on to such a thirsty thought; as I need to continue with my walk.
The Riverside Park, is my last stop before I return home,
but I will drink it in, to savour this visual cocktail of the
ancient and the new, with more smiles reaching out to
me, with each smile telling me, that although we are still
in a loathsome lockdown, we are all in the same boat,
and we will paddle hard to reclaim our normality. My
thoughts become a pictured memory, as I remember
the day; where I played to the multitude, where there
was jubilant sound, instead of a decaying silence, but then
I recall the smiles that I have seen today, thus my words
are far too coarse, thus I continue with my course, with
a happy and thankful heart, with a dream to hold on to.
When I return to number thirteen, I pour a glass
of something cheerful, to toast to a simple thing, and
that thing is: I am alive, I am loved, and of course, I issue
a vote of thanks, to my feet, my vehicle, of who I adore,
so, to many more wondrous walks, across this floor.