The Park

Terry Trainor By Terry Trainor, 25th Jul 2013 | Follow this author | RSS Feed | Short URL http://nut.bz/3j-e5z-o/
Posted in Wikinut>Writing>Poetry

Taking a look a an old park that was one my playground, helping builders mix cement and doing odd jobs. Sitting with the London County Council workers are they built a park in a housing estate.

The Park

Wandering down an old road, red brick council houses on both sides, a tarmac drive led to an old wreck I used to play in,
The end of the drive opened into a playground and there stood the rusted remains of a park, a past life, it stood in tatters the rides broken,
To my left an old ‘jungle gym’ stripped of it’s galvanized covering it was now brown with rusted holes in the bars, it was once shiny,
Surrounded by a concrete base that had been the cause of many broken limbs and cut heads, just wouldn’t be allowed these days.

Swings



Across the way the swing’s frame had fallen to the ground, wooden seats split in half some had been burned and lay as ashes,
Thick chains now gone, sold for scrap we used to push an empty swing so hard it would go over the top bar, so it would hang higher than the rest.
The ‘flying sausage’ snapped in the middle, the most terrifying ride in the park, six kids on a plank souring up and down, backwards and forwards,
And the higher it went the nearer your head got to the cross bar, I remember children screaming and crying telling the pushers to slow down,
When the ride stopped children would run home to tell their fathers that the big boys had nearly hurt them, men with rolled up sleeves gave out thick ears.

The Slide



The slide seemed to tower high up to the sky, some knees knocked as we walked up metal stairs gripping hard on railings,
A brass sliding base used to get polished with candle wax and flashed as a July sun caught it, it was more slippery than ice,
Children flew down at breakneck speed so fast they fell off the end and grazed themselves on a white concrete floor,
A long ago park full of children with their pet dogs running around like little colouful dots, some swinging up and down on ‘monkey bars.’
The metal and wood roundabout had come off its axel and sat skewed surrounded by rubbish and broken bottles an old bike frame lay nearby,
We would spin that thing so fast then jump off falling onto hard ground, head spinning, walking like a drunk, feeling sick like a drunk.

The Rides



There was an uneven field behind two high grass humps I remember the diggers dumping mud there, once they were just piles of clay,
And each ride frame had a brass plaque with Wicksteed Park pressed into the metal, as dangerous as they were they were well made,
The park rides once gleamed red and green I remember smelling oil based paint before it dried hard and supposedly childproof, cast iron reeked of carbon.
I watched this park being built, I remember the workmen they told me the names of different shovels and spades and what was used when.

Helping the Builders



And I suppose some of my galvanization has flaked too, and most of the shine has gone, but my memories serve me well, sometimes too well,
An image stands next to me a little boy with grazed knees, standing wide eyed watching the park take shape wishing the workers would work quickly,
Saying ‘yes sir’ when told to get out of the way, asking if he could help fetch water to mix sand and cement, from a standpipe in the street,
Running backwards and forwards with a metal bucket tiny arms straining when the bucket was full but too proud and important to accept help.

'Age,' The Great Warrior



In the summer holidays it became a real job and I was treated like one of the real workers, had tea breaks and drank tea from an enamel cup,
A kind Irishman would bring me in a doorstep sandwich full of jam and my chair was my upturned bucket, they told me their stories, whispered when they cursed,
So I helped to build this park and now it’s outlived its purpose, ‘age’ the greatest of all warriors has won two more victories, beaten the park beaten the builder,
But as I stand and look over a milestone in my lifetime I can see children laughing as they play, crying when they fall down, most always got up.
I held onto a bar of my ‘jungle gym’ and griped it tightly, like I was shaking hands with an old friend, 'who am I kidding?' I was shaking hands with and old friend.

Tags

Back In The Day, Jungle Gym, Monkey Bars, Nostalgia, Past Times, Poetry, Roundabout, Swing Seat, Swings, Terry Trainor

Meet the author

author avatar Terry Trainor
I am a Poet.
My passion is to write about nature and the history of nature.

Share this page

moderator johnnydod moderated this page.
If you have any complaints about this content, please let us know

Comments

author avatar Terry Trainor
25th Jul 2013 (#)

Thank you Mark

Reply to this comment

author avatar Delicia Powers
25th Jul 2013 (#)

How artfully you paint the memories of times that would be forgotten if not for your fabulous pen... your pictures are perfect...a joy to read- thank you- Terry please let me know if a book is 0n the wing...:0)-I do hope so...

Reply to this comment

author avatar Terry Trainor
25th Jul 2013 (#)

Thank you Delicia, yes it's on the wing and will be in the shops in a few months

Reply to this comment

author avatar Delicia Powers
25th Jul 2013 (#)

well I be able to get in on Amazon or somewhere here in the states Terry, please let me know...thanks...And congratulations my friend!

Reply to this comment

author avatar Stella Mitchell
25th Jul 2013 (#)

Wonderful memories of times gone by, as only you can relay them Terry , dear friend ....and the pictures say it all ... They were dangerous times but fun .
Bless you
Stella ><

Reply to this comment

author avatar Terry Trainor
25th Jul 2013 (#)

Thanks Stella, I have changed my style slightly in my next post, just waiting for it to be moderated.

Reply to this comment

author avatar Grumpybear
25th Jul 2013 (#)

Memories are the spice of life. :)

Reply to this comment

author avatar Terry Trainor
26th Jul 2013 (#)

Thank you for reading Grumpy.

Reply to this comment

author avatar Sivaramakrishnan A
26th Jul 2013 (#)

Another of your great posts that take us all back to our rough childhood, Terry. These memories are forever green etched and indelible. Hopefully present day kids too have such adventures to recall but looks unlikely, sadly - siva

Reply to this comment

author avatar Terry Trainor
26th Jul 2013 (#)

Character forming days my friend I can't remember how many times I climbed up the drainpipe to climb in the bedroom window because my mum had left the key indoors.

Reply to this comment

author avatar LOVERME
27th Jul 2013 (#)

YOU are that author...
we crave to be...
but you know none read poetry...
so wiki is enough for me

Reply to this comment

author avatar Yasmin.k
27th Jul 2013 (#)

How it feels good to go down the memory lane!

Reply to this comment

author avatar Terry Trainor
28th Jul 2013 (#)

It does my friend

Reply to this comment

author avatar Trillionaire
27th Jul 2013 (#)

Very beautiful.

Reply to this comment

author avatar Terry Trainor
28th Jul 2013 (#)

Tanks again my friend.

Reply to this comment

author avatar Mariah
30th Jul 2013 (#)

Golden memories written perfectly with that golden pen of yours..you really got me with the "who am I kidding..I was shaking hands with an old friend" says it all
Great read Terry, thank you
Mariah

Reply to this comment

author avatar Terry Trainor
31st Jul 2013 (#)

Thanks for reading my dear friend.

Reply to this comment

author avatar Jane flood
15th Feb 2016 (#)

Still can't believe I found you after all these years....so lovely to read your words of real life written so poignantly I feel I am back in my childhood.....don't stop writing X

Reply to this comment

author avatar Terry Trainor
16th Feb 2016 (#)

Thanks Jane. If you read some of the nature poems, look very deep and you will find your sister. Her hair may have changed, she may be older. But she is there.

Reply to this comment

Add a comment
Username
Can't login?
Password