Sledge Poem by Neil Crawford

Copper tubing from a plumber friend
formed the curving burnished rails,
off cuts of corpy planks the stylish
seats and slats.

This was the sledge, made in secret,
in a few snatched hours,
that Dad brought home one blue/grey
winter's evening.

It was used, as I recall, just once
on the tiny hill of the Valley Brook
at the bottom of the road, by the winding
path to the 'Tarzan' rope.

Such snows ceased as the planet warmed
and the guiltless sledge was banished.
In the shed it lay undisturbed
until murdered in its sleep.

Cannibalised for running repairs
its tubes were used in plumbing jobs,
its bright brass screws inserted into
undeserving rawl plugs.

Its slats and seats patched parts
of the skirting board hidden
by stereogram, sofa and haughty,
nomadic piano.

Like his idea to interest me
in football, boxing and rugby
Dad's idea hit a wall and slid
into the waste bin marked'told yer'.

Lost in reverie from an early age
I was not a rough and tumble boy,
but if I was ever a disappointment
my father never showed it.

We reconnected permanently
with a mutual love of poetry and music
we met on the supposed 'No Man's Land'
between the generations.

I spoke of 'Hughes and Thomas'
he countered with 'Hardy and Lawrence'
I said 'Dylan', 'Hendrix' and 'The Beatles'
he replied 'Woody Guthrie', 'Bruckner' and 'Jazz'.

Many fathers might have thought
such a son effeminate, but not mine
I think he rumbled, early on that, deep down,
I was older than him and had been for some time.

He was the 'young pup' on his first life
while I was the boomerang soul
often counselling caution
in his later, firebrand years.