When we were kids
I used to go to my friend
Johnny’s
In order to lose
ourselves amongst his mother’s meadow-like garden
Round the back of the
house
That the university let
them live in
As long as Johnny’s mam
worked
On the campus there.
Endless days spilt into
weeks spilt into months
Spent in the abandonment
which summer and childhood
Can afford
And I ceased to think of
that house, with its great,
Green expanse on all
sides
As anything other than my
own.
One particularly
sickly-sweet, sweaty day
Andy (Johnny’s brother)
came running, telling tales of
An ancient brick wall
that he’d found
Behind some bushes, in a
far-flung,
Lesser-explored corner of
the meadow
Which looked like, with a
little persuasion
Would probably just
fucking fall o’er
Which, of course, was all
the information we needed.
Streaking across the long
grass,
in usual formation
(Johnny first/ me/ Andy trailing a little behind)
Leaping over logs and
through tangleweed
Andy shouting clipped
directions from behind
We arrived, breathless,
at the decrepit, redbrick antiquity
Sagging and bowing under
its own weight
And decades worth of
weathered, crumbling mortar.
Stopping only to draw
breath and take in
The potential for
juvenile destruction, then
Grabbing a fallen tree
limb
Between the three of us
And, wielding that
rudimentary battering ram
Joyously and dementedly,
aiming that sucker
Into the heart of the
most prominent bulge
And pounding her in
Over and over again
Whooping with exhaustion,
splinters, blisters
And brick dust rising up
All around our ears.
We didn’t hear the shouts
from beyond the wall
Over the racket we were
busy making
The shrieks increasing
with each fallen brick
A cacophony of
abandonment and destruction
As the swelling cement
finally gave up
and we went spilling
through the fresh hole
Battering ram and all
A shower of splintering wood,
broken stone and young limbs
Clattering in upon a
well-to-do looking family
Sitting round a picnic
table
Staring aghast at the
point of commotion
And the place where
their
garden wall used to be.
