Songs of Boyhood Memory
Under the Beech Tree
Under the beech tree we learned to live, children released,
Free at play-times for twenty minutes, free from sit-straight, yes-miss moments.
At dinner times, a whole hour,
Without a grown-up near.
We practised count-to-ten rituals of hide-and-seek, and always someone could be found, under the beech tree.
Under the beech tree we played out our lives.
School fields became our moon landings, the concrete yard our
Battle of Hastings, and the massed rank of metal bins our Fire of London.
What looked like child-like, innocent fantasy was more,
Much more, was putting things in order on a grander scale, and we hid like Bonnie Prince Charlie,
Under the beech tree.
Under the beech tree, we giggled at the messages left by our older friends,
Carved into the bark, names within hearts.
Liaisons that would never last, etched for all to see, for generations.
As we sat on dew-laden grass,
Under the beech tree.
Under the beech tree we wept out our fears.
Hidden from view, we dried our faces,
Became brave again, chins lifted defiantly against our momentary, fleeting enemies.
The beech tree gave our ephemeral fears a shadow to hide under,
Shaded our true feelings. There we found succour,
Under the beech tree.
Under the beech tree we made up games, games of you and me,
Of us and them. Games, long-forgotten now that lasted,
Day by day for weeks on end,
Until summer came, and we parted, looking on to autumn,
Under the beech tree.
Under the beech tree, we kissed, you and I,
Old friends still,
Holding hands and laughing,
Under the beech tree.
November, 2011
Free at play-times for twenty minutes, free from sit-straight, yes-miss moments.
At dinner times, a whole hour,
Without a grown-up near.
We practised count-to-ten rituals of hide-and-seek, and always someone could be found, under the beech tree.
Under the beech tree we played out our lives.
School fields became our moon landings, the concrete yard our
Battle of Hastings, and the massed rank of metal bins our Fire of London.
What looked like child-like, innocent fantasy was more,
Much more, was putting things in order on a grander scale, and we hid like Bonnie Prince Charlie,
Under the beech tree.
Under the beech tree, we giggled at the messages left by our older friends,
Carved into the bark, names within hearts.
Liaisons that would never last, etched for all to see, for generations.
As we sat on dew-laden grass,
Under the beech tree.
Under the beech tree we wept out our fears.
Hidden from view, we dried our faces,
Became brave again, chins lifted defiantly against our momentary, fleeting enemies.
The beech tree gave our ephemeral fears a shadow to hide under,
Shaded our true feelings. There we found succour,
Under the beech tree.
Under the beech tree we made up games, games of you and me,
Of us and them. Games, long-forgotten now that lasted,
Day by day for weeks on end,
Until summer came, and we parted, looking on to autumn,
Under the beech tree.
Under the beech tree, we kissed, you and I,
Old friends still,
Holding hands and laughing,
Under the beech tree.
November, 2011