Beating the bounds 2005

Black swans preening at the rivers' mouth
blackcap singing over the coals
we turn and walk for the first time
anti-clockwise, past the old hulk,
past neat-painted narrow-boats
and King's Meadow pocked with charred patches
instant barbeque squares, the sun already
............. beginning to burn.
By Caversham Bridge dodge a stroppy cyclist,
stroppier swans, coots on the nest, and on
through clean-cropped Rivermead,
turning our first corner, onto the festival site.
Here I saw Loop in white one summers' day,
Butthole Surfers trashing their guitars
after their first song, Dinosaur Jr;
here I crashed out in the shade one year,
here a girlfriend gave up,
..........slopping about in the mud in her socks,
.................and so we missed Nirvana.
..........Into Cow Lane and under
Reading's least friendly bridges
through shabby industrial land to the verges
of the Hospital, in genteel decline.
On to the Oxford Road. Adam looks nervous.
I assure him he won’t get mugged
for just stopping to stare. We turn due south,
aim for the corner of the old Elm Park
remember flooding out of the Tilehurst End
after the win over Wolves,
the Eagle packed to the gills,
people laughing out loud. Dodge old Pigs Green Lane
for the Bath Road, the houses getting posher
yard by yard. Down placid, prosperous Winser Drive
—all incident banned by decree—
and duck under the tracks, a scramble through blackthorn
swinging our second corner, onto the old branch line.
Cinnabar moths zizz through the hemlock
—unlikely black and fire—
Speckled Woods defend their quiet patches of sun.
Tramps nest in the holly.
And then the land drops away
to river plain
..........and we ride this raised walkway
..........................through floodable lush green
Coley towers looming benign over waving
grass and reed. A kite slips from view.
The sun now right overhead, we shadow
the Holy Brook east to cross
the Relief Road. Little relief for us here—
and duck down by Reg Vardy
making friends with a yankee
Harris Hawk, hired to scare the seagulls,
into head-high nettles, cross to the Kennet,
the meadows and factories
alike abuzz. We want a ferry
but detour for a bridge.
Fishermen use iPods
to keep the traffic at bay.
Maybe listening to silence, or birdsong,
or by the T-shirt, Iron Maiden.
There's another duck, a dive, and a swizzle
and we're up through patterned brickwork again
past a monkey-puzzle to the boundary stones
of Basingstoke Road. We give them a kicking
in good style, and sink a pint
with a friendly rabbit at the Wellington.
A Waterhouse detour, some shade.
Adam stares at brickwork and strokes his beard,
declares 'Flemish Garden Wall Bond', and strides off,
..........swishing his stick.
..................Somosas and Summer Lightning
..........at the Nob, unchanged in two decades
and then turn, our third corner this,
down through Redlands and Lydford,
the boundary always out of sight
..........behind terrace gardens
.................ghost-empty roads and clean lawnmowers
..........net-curtains too sleepy to twitch
and then it's the Junction.
...............Places I remember
Sitting on the pavements chatting
or the horrible after-hours bar
..........overpriced cans and UV light.
On Cumberland there's smiles on faces again,
...........people everywhere, is that a syringe in the gutter?
..................Sun starting just to slip from the sky
as we square the circle, seal the square
and tie the knot on our old town;
..........sound for another year.