Injun Summer Part Three Poem by Tom Billsborough

Across the bridge we turned now to the West
Following the Ribble on its journey to the coast.
A mile or so along a metalled road
And then along a dusty track we strode,
Ever watchful for an ambush to repel.
None came that day, and if I tell
The truth none ever came, only strangers
With their dogs and occasional anglers.
We let them pass without a single slaying.
Some Injuns we! We never did no scalping!
But it was fun to think what might have been
Even if we were softer than whipped Ice-cream.
Our usual destination was as a a rule
A place we called our Little Blackpool.
The soil was sandy here and usually quite dry
Room for our camp and room to lie
Upon the soft white sand beside the shore.
Upon the way we'd picked up twigs galore
To make our fire and some dry grass for tinder.
We'd post a lookout on the bank, our minder,
Usually Gordon whom we didn't really like,
Whilst we set to raise the Wigwam, spike
The pegs until it looked quite straight
And built the bonfire up until it looked quite neat.