Many of you will have read in mid February the first part of my Reedswood Park, Walsall poem. Please find below the second part of “my Reedswood Park story”.
Reedswood Park parts one and two.
I was born in the Birchills near Reedswood park,
I would play there all summer until it was dark.
We’ll “stick ya” one group would say to another,
I tagged along to play in teams with my brother.
Horace, the “parkie” would let us finish the game,
“climb over the gate lads” was his usual refrain.
We would play in matches that went on forever,
Then dash home for tea running hell for leather.
In the summer we would also play cricket,
The bobbly grass never formed the best wicket.
Occasionally Dad would come and bowl without fuss,
Teaching us spinning and how the seam was “advantage” us.
Sadly, these days came to an end,
When school books required attention to spend.
But if I could return to an halcyon time in my life,
I’d go back to the days, on the Park, without strife.
More of my tales on Reedswood Park,
I will jot down before my memory is too dark.
The swing and slide were up on the hill,
No protective flooring if you fell it could kill.
From the top of the hill a perfect view,
Of a concrete cricket pitch sitting below.
Too flat and hard for bowling skills,
Batting all day was merely a battle of wills.
Further round standing proud and tall,
the Power Station towers made you feel small.
But if ever you were on a day away from the “patch”,
No better sight was the “towers” guiding you back.
The park had putting and bowling greens,
The grass was tendered and treated – the best ever seen.
Opposite was the Tennis courts and club,
The top courts you could play on by paying a sub.
Walking around towards the “echo”,
You could see the steam train feeding the furnace below.
The trees formed a boulevard of shade,
As the path meandered – Reedswood’s tree lined palisade.
The field on the right housed the old outdoor school site,
A place to recover from breathing problems and such like.
The grass in front saw many a great match scene,
Copying stars from around the globe most of whom we had never seen.
Turning left up the hill towards the changing rooms,
Not the greatest of facilities in need of a broom.
Alongside though was the park keeper’s home,
A splendid building that shone out on its own.
In the summer entertainers would please,
All the children sat round amongst the trees,
Magicians, story tellers, a singer named Dot,
We devoured what they told us enjoying the lot.
One major omission you may think I’m a fool,
For not mentioning the swimming lido pool.
Simply it was not a place we oft went,
Jumpers for goalposts was the hours we spent.
I hope you have enjoyed my mental walk round,
I cannot be sure that my memory is 100% sound.
But that is the thing about memories – they are mine,
Maybe not totally accurate but that is just fine.