We slid Over Streams of the Dreams of the Young

© 2007 Jeff Lynch

You can do many things with ten pounds.
I bought a ride on the Cam on a punt.
We slid over the streams of dead boys,
With their worries their wars and their woes,
And their almost perfect literary dreams.
And we spoke of old verses and stone.
And I saw what Wren had wrought and it’s,
Quite an achievement for a non architect,

It’ easy to see that there’s oodles of
Room to make love in a punt,
And the backs tell their stories enough.
Of the Cambridge of ties,
And big money to burn. 
And a bridge that may sigh with
The burden of history and the weight of
Bright boys and their scheming Papas.

We slid over the streams of dead boys,
At the backs, in the Cam of the morning
With bridges above us cracking and bending
And surely sinking into the Cam, smelling
Of mires, cut grass and stinking wet stone.
Bridges which wouldn’t carry, men
Who would marry; for war’s playing fields
Called them once more from the shires.


 

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