Ah, Chalkwell, where as an extremely impressionable 17 year old I went in the hope of catching the eye of a local boy who I’m pretty certain wasn’t even aware of my existence. I learnt the rules of Cricket for him, and they’ve lasted far longer in my head than his name. I think he was a Steve, but recall has never been my strong point with such things.

No matter: the park remains, testament to time and countless innings. It’s also home of the local arts collective to whom I owe a vast debt of gratitude: this idea was meant as my way to try and grab an in-house residency. As it happens, it’s opened the doors to other places that have not been explored for many decades, and for that alone the whole project’s been well worth time and effort.

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Regeneration

Passed thousand times
wholes dug, refilled
dog walking paradise
10am eternal. Here
she listened, smiled
haiku verse, aware
one day, all this
will be yours. Sit
silly points, drink
teenage angst,
double dipped, rules
learnt, mad about
boy who won’t. Art
bought and paid,
rhyme made, that
tree, Village Green
(don’t know which)
one chance, all in
out for the lads. A
bite swells, massive
failure, blistered
brain regains belief
start again, regenerate
at Chalkwell gates.