What to us was a park lined
the drive up to that country house
where The Beatles’ maharishi
made arguably plausible claims.
Damp yews turned out to be
promises made but not kept.
At that age, of course,
we raced amongst them,
played war games in thickets
on the far side of ploughed land
which led to Bridego Bridge –
a 1960s topography.
Where Beeching’s cut line
swung around the border
of an aristocratic estate,
we fired air pistols into bark.
Dunstable lovers came out
to woo in secluded lanes.
We were already there –
witnesses and irritants.
In the decade’s last evening,
we marched home, immune
to sunset and shadows,
a geometry of trees.
