For My Young Farmer Friend John Watson Of Townfield Farm, Wettenhall Poem by Keith Shorrocks Johnson

Gunning up the old TR2 down the Old Coach Road
Through Delamere Forest after a party or dance
You hit one hundred miles per hour - avoiding
Rabbits, hedgehogs, stray deer, and blown boughs.

Slowing down nicely to Oulton Park Gates -
Like Stirling Moss lining up Knicker Brook
Where Blaster Bates had blown a stump
And a village girl had lost her clouts in the scramble.

We lived and laughed on - the thrills of speed and survival
Nothing like doing something daft when you're a lad
And living to tell the tale - the smell of beer and gasoline
Time to pull out the Player's Navy Cut and light up a smoke.

Fifty years on I called in at the farm, down the new driveway,
And waited and chatted with his wife, who I hadn't met before,
Until he came back from moving agisted youngstock at Eaton
And we smiled those deep shy grins of country boys reunited.

Time to tell again the tale of the straight run and the ton up
You were a bloody hero Watson - a right wild young gentleman!