A Blyton Childhood (Poetry)

Perhaps (they said) we’d half-imagined it —
the way children are quite often prone to do
egged-on by queasy but infectious excitement
almost revelling in some shudder-making discovery

By turns, four of us peered down
squinting through the sluggish stream
to what the first had already declared to be
a drowned white hand caught there among the weeds

Chalk-faced, Susie wouldn’t even look
she hung back, wide-eyed — simply agreed
with the rest of us we must without delay
run quickly and tell someone

They came at once of course —
the grown-ups needing first to check
it wasn’t something rather less macabre
before they involved the law

Nothing there (they said)
no trace that they could see
maybe a trick of light or else some kind
of lazing fish, a fluke since swum away ...

Susie was glad and chattering — all smiles
the rest of us crestfallen thinking
what a swizz! — no mystery
for we keen budding sleuths to solve

Years on, they piped that turbid stream
and during the redevelopment that followed
unearthed long-buried bones
in that same unfrequented spot

And I have one recurring dream
my stubborn memory’s preserved —
the river bank, five kids at play
on the day we found that hand

As I stare hard one swollen finger crooks
I see it clearly — death-pale flesh
though its misfortune I can never know
instinct trumps — for I’m certain they were wrong
                                                        that was no fish