Us Being There. Poem by Terry Collett

Beyond the pram sheds
Chana rode her bike.

I was with Helen
watching from the balcony
of the flats.

Rides well,
doesn't she?
Helen said.

I watched
as Chana rode
around and around
the pram sheds.

Wish I had a bike,
but my parents
can't afford one,
I said.

Mine neither;
even the doll's pram I've got
is from a jumble sale.

Chana rode down the slope
and out of sight.

What about Battered Betty?
where did that doll come from?

My grandmother
gave it to me;
I think it was hers.

Where do you
want to go?
I asked her.

What about the park
and ride on the swings?

Sure, fine.

So we walked
down the stairs
and out through
the Square;
the morning
sunshine warming;
other kids playing
here and there;
the baker's
horse and cart
parked by the wall
of the other flats.

The park was busy;
the swings
were all occupied;
the slide and see-saw
were also engaged.

We waited,
sitting in a seat nearby,
she talking of wanting
a new doll's pram
she'd seen in a shop
and I listening,
taking in
her two plaited bunches
of brown hair;
her thick lens glasses
and us
being there.