BEATING THE STREETS


There's a bag of hope in a tin of dreams buried in our backyard,
In that narrow Bristol side street near the quay.
To a kid it was a morning's walk with small legs working hard
But small feet move much faster when they're free.

Once you get down by the Corn Exchange, The Nails go flying by,
Towering Small Street only seemed a minute long.
Have you ever run through Marsh St while you're looking at the sky?
As you listen to Ol' Bristol sing her song.

Iron wheels stammer on the cobbles, as the Georges' Brewery mare
Clips her steel toed dance towards the Volunteer,
Through the Thunderbolt Street gateway, from the sleepy Sedan Chair,
Where they dream the dreams that brewers sell with beer.

Festoon'd underneath the dray's backrail in a blur of arms and legs,
Boys were tasting stolen pleasures in the ride,
Heady moments fighting tyranny, behind the crates and kegs,
Quickened heartbeats with the danger and the pride.

Crossing Queen's Square, 'gainst the traffic, on the way to Brandon Hill;
Passing homes for sailors finished with the sea.
Men with grey clay pipes, and clouded gaze, that seemed so very still,
Smoking salted wisdom, looking far alee.

Now behind their eyes, warm trade winds sigh across an ocean swell
Where solemn birds race ships on ebbing tides.
White billowed sails kiss Western gales, though some saw floating hell,
All left their mark in rolling measured strides.

Skirting round the top of E shed with its tang of foreign shores,
You can dap up Park Street passing College Green.
Where: "If thee bisn't careful... thee's could wind up with them oars"
Though the wonder was, a boat was never seen.

On the hill: The brown stone edifice of Cabot's résumé,
Rose from puddled stones, where newts and weeds entwined.
Flashing gold beneath the water in their quick Pisces display,
Small fish etched the lure of treasure in the mind.

Hours of spiral steps and tower tops sped morning on its way,
Till the past and ancient travel moved young bones,
To the sunbeam'd dance of Museum's dust, and musty aged decay,
Primal silence calling in soft undertones.

Durdham Downs among the conkers, all along the 'Lady's Mile'
After nosing windows up through Blackboy Hill,
Clutching pennies saved outside the zoo, but dredging up a smile'
Racing full pelt down the Zig Zag for the thrill.

Grey sock Tarzan climb up through the trees, to the top of Clifton Down,
Where the 'Camera' trapped young lovers in their fun;
In that circled room, on wooden boards, feet shuffled round and round
In the darkness eyes watched people in the sun.

Race back, through the lanes of Clifton, down the slope of Jacobs Wells,
Passing Q.E.H. where strident young boys quote,
(With yellow socks and inky stains from hours of long travail,)
Bristol's "Virtute et Industria" learn'd by rote.

Friese Greene's plaque cost fragments of his time, behind the Unicorns,
And in Denmark Street, behind the Hippodrome,
He read the paper plaques of 'stars', who trod their wooden bourne,
Before he slipped across the Centre, heading home.

To his map of all the oceans, and the towns in all the world,
It was buried in the backyard in the tin.
With foreign coins from all the world, and a note that he could fold,
And he had a leather bag to keep them in.



Reg Kear © 1995.