SUNDAY SCHOOL OUTING

SUNDAY SCHOOL OUTING
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That summer day in Marple I recall--

A boy of ten or so, wolfing jelly,

Thin sandwiches and cakes in some church hall,

Then romping in a park through a humid

Afternoon, larking by the still canal,

Its waters black, patched duckweed-emerald.

Later, we all shambled down the steep road

To Rose Hill station, and boarded dull-red

Carriages waiting dustily on track

Where weeds held sway. Doors closed; ensconced within,

I sank into a coarse, broidered cushion,

Whirling a host of gilded motes aloft

To wander through the netted luggage-rack

Above the framed, glass-covered landscapes on

Compartment walls of darkly-varnished wood.

That moment I remember most-- how like

A womb or warm cocoon it felt, as though

Unborn, yet having faculties that knew

Intuitively how significance

Had dwelt embodied there, deep-nourished by

The near and comfortable presence of

A woman teacher, velvet-voiced, roundly-

Formed, kind in soul, a tender Mother Earth

Who nurtured and attracted us that day.

A boy beside me had a cardboard tube,

A cheaply-made kaleidoscope. He let

Me borrow it, and lifting it toward

The light I peered at tumbling patterns formed

By chips of coloured glass bright-tinkling as

They shifted in the shaken tube, a fret

Of sorts, dim crystal worlds ephemeral,

Like ghostly apparitions in their shows

Of brief existences, which led me then

As now I know, to apperception in

Myself; though at the time they seemed to be

But pretty shapes in glass: now there are depths

Beneath each surface, realms beyond the seen,

Though apprehended faintly, fleetingly.

A whistle blew, a porter waved his hand,

The carriage lurched, its coupling tensed, the train

Moved off, grey puffs of coal smoke mantled trees,

Green countryside slid by, then thinned, replaced

With sudden glooms of sooty bridges, backs

Of terraced houses loomed atop a high

Embankment, then the clattered crossing of

The junction at Guide Bridge. Next, downhill to

Fairfield, a boggart-haunted place where we

Often played, enjoying icy thrills of

Pursuit by those imagined little men

With pointy ears and hairy bodies, hid

In meadow grass with seed-tops brushing legs. . .

Then back at last-- Gorton & Openshaw

Station, where we clambered out, tired, dirty,

Full of languor, (though not admitting it:

What boy thinks willingly of bed?) The short

Walk to our homes, an hour spent to tell

The day's exciting tales, then drowsiness,

An early supper, reluctant washing,

Sad donning of pyjamas, and Dad's words,

''Up the dancers'', the weary climb to bed.

But, but-- now welcome all the same-- to drown

In slumber after so replete a day,

The outing woven into childhood dream.

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Stanley

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