Eternal Toy

Eternal Toy

By

R. M. Walters

There was an old iron bridge where my brother and I
shared adventure and dreamed boyish dreams,
fished for sun-perch, catfish, sharks
and other monsters of the ocean deep,
or sailed majestic ships of broken twig
on the muddy swimming hole beneath the bridge
that was the best of the world’s greatest streams. 

And, tiring of such sport, we often turned 

to the daring feats of circus acrobats amid 

its rusty braces and on its bolted frame, 

or walked a splintered oak plank 

for Captain John Silver (a most fearsome name) 

and -- God forbid! -- practiced 

some few other diabolical schemes.

Near that rusty iron toy stood a towering elm tree

(a sturdy landmark older even than the bridge) 
whose rambling boughs served us other hours of joy 

as we escaped reality by the devious means 

of swaying on its topmost branches in perfect harmony
with the same warm breeze that ruffled our hair. 
And, while hanging in mid air, 
there were, of course, those 
intellectual discussions of a passing cloud, 
the phenomenon of a floating dirigible, 
or the merits of the clapboard church spire 
in the distance that aspired to ethereal proportions. 
Then, changing our attitudes, we mastered with ease 
the engineering marvel of a tree house 
made of borrowed trash and scattered debris, 
or on the most impetuous whim tied rotten 
ropes to its springy branches and like the jungle 
apes swung from limb to limb. 

Leading toward our wondrous playground (my brother’s and mine) 
was a lazy country road that meandered in disorderly fashion 
across pasture and patch and thrilled 
our bare toes with soft warm dust 
or tortured our feet with a cinder or two. 
And it was always a presumptuous fad, 
before the journey was through, 
to leave the road, and, deftly skirting hardened cow dung, 
we frequently challenged Farmer Brown’s ferocious bull 
to a most capricious race; 
then laughed and yelled and chased 
a butterfly back to the road -- just for fun! -- 
and felled a noisy crow or sparrow 
with our trusty slingshots, 
before the trip to our playground was done. 

Later, while returning home at a much slower pace, 
we would waste a little energy 
in a weedy cemetery on a wind swept hill 
and ogle the dates on the lopsided tombstones 
with boyhood reverence 
and contemplate the lonely souls still 
lingering there in ghostly presence. 
Then, afterwards, we would quite placidly stroll 
into a neighbor’s cornfield that ran for acres and acres, 
before it bumped against a split rail fence, 
which we most usually walked like Hindu fakers; 
and shortly, we would jump with uncultured glee 
into our own barnyard enclosure 
and rush toward our creaky old pump to wash 
our heads in protozoan waters -- 
home at last from our adventurous spree. 

Those are days of memories now, 
of liberty in its purest essence, 
of freedom with all its joys, 
of boys just being boys 
while sharing the neighborhood of yesterday 
playing with the most marvelous toy of toys!