Stepping Out

In the fifties holidays meant BlackpoolWith its prom, trams and a Paris-light tower,Or Skegness, shunned by the sea most of theTime and bland as English haute cuisine.The boarding houses were refined borstals:Loud coughing or a raised voice a violation.In the wet, drifting along, snagged in a sea ofUmbrellas, I could only nag at mum and dad –Aware that something, somehow was wrong.‘Do you know that there are childrenWho never ever go on holiday?And you have money to spend every day.’I didn’t know enough to question the premiseSo I sulked and rejected the crazy golf.Far too late to be sorry I let them down -But my mood in Skegness was as flat as the town.

Then, on one sunlit day in a noisy coachA longed-for school trip was a prelude toA walk by the side of the River Dove.Here the world sang a very different song:The river meandered on its way, softly,Swaying by its banks - crooning, as if content.Branches thick with leaves leaned over theRiver thick with silvery darting fish.And here, walking and not wanting I found,A life – so the world, rich in time, was mine.And then, the stepping stones of Dovedale:One by one we crossed beneath a cloudless sky –A trip to savour, for ever, in the sweet by and by.