STILTS: A NEW POEM...

Stilts

I wonder now whether it had been

Something to do with a circus clown,

Or perhaps a cousin had been bought a pair,

Painted to hide hewn wood’s natural brown…

I wonder now when and why I asked

For my own stilts upon which to play;

Perhaps my working class father wanted

His own woodworking prowess to display…

Recycled wood was one Sunday utilised,

A wedge screwed into each upright,

So that twelve inches my feet were raised

And I staggered, I stuttered, hesitant and tight…

Recycled wood a few times was played upon,

Until I had mastered the balance and the stride;

I was temporarily taller but undeniably bored

But too frightened those negative thoughts to confide… 

I visited Folly Farm years later with my own kids,

A Welsh adventure destination;

I was soon alerted to stilts which lay on the ground

And for me there was no procrastination…

I clambered onto the wooden legs,

Like a circus clown aloft I strode;

I had taught myself the rudiments as a kid

And those skills now showed and flowed… 

Pete Ray

March 2018

The stilts made by my dad were OK but only until I could walk on them. 

I even kicked balls with them: Stilt-ball, I suppose.

They lay untouched for a long time in my dad’s bric-a-brac shed.

On holiday in Wales with my kids in the 1990s, my kids spotted stilts for use and I was encouraged to have a go. I managed. Few others did.

One moment of joy…