Slip-stream
That place where we go to, you know, there's a river
shall we go to the river? Am I part of this we,
I wonder? Is it my hand you are holding?
There's a bridge... and a café too.
My mind travels upstream, Hampton, Chertsey,
Runnymede, yes French's where we took the boat
to Windsor, the town crowned with laurels,
Olympians taking a break, shipping their oars.
The pubs were full and we couldn't get a seat,
though a mother and child shifted up,
and you told them about your Dad who got up at 5
to catch the tide, hauling his barges up to Greenwich.
It's Alton, she says, and I struggle to think of the river –
though a quick google tells me it's the source of the Wey.
So we go, and hold on tight against a wind that slaps
through the empty parade.
We eat a pizza in Zizzi's and trawl the charity shops.
Thank you for a lovely day, she says, and I thank her too.
It was Eton, I say driving home, making a connection.
I think you are remembering Eton.