Follow the Donkey

A polyvocal poem by Helen Bowell using words by Marlow and Bourne End’s communities

It’s a track plodder, many-windower,
scenery-passer, a good heart.

It ees and it orrs until ears are sore.
It rides along from morning at dawn
to evening when it nibbles the lawn.
It’s the train we ride, where we go for a pint.

It’s a river rider, a rainy steamer,
a stubborn trolly dolly, evacuee carrier.

It bears us to work and school
and holidays, too, to Swindon, London,
Addlestone, Edinburgh, even Minden
in Germany with the troops.

A big-eared bullet. A little chuffer.
Steady wheeler, reliable driver.

We step aboard with Mum and Dad,
Victor and Gretel, Brigitte Bardot,
excited grandchildren, excited grandparents,
friends and boyfriends, dogs aboard too.

We read and eat, nip to the loo,
play cards, check emails, snooze,
as the rail’s clickety-clack
whistles us wherever we’re going.

Where is it we’re going?
How long will it take?
Are we running late?
Do we need to change?

A strong plodder, burden loader,
a river horse, metallic snake.

We’re donkeys in life and load too,
always carrying bags full of cheese
and onion crisps, Fruit and Nut, dust –
always lugging suitcases, backpacks, buggies.

But look at the view: all the hills and the heather,
cows and sheep, sun and stream,
train tracks rolling, a forest of oak and willow
and fir. Red kite. Yellow sky.

Precious clopper, dog walker,
fun traveller, old smoker.

We do chip-walks with Brownie packs
along the mighty Thames, past
Longridge where we play, past
Cardboard Castle’s ancient cheetahs,

and Enid Blyton’s magic wood, past
the flood marker from ’47, and we know
the importance of walking, of trains,
of a bag of chips for the Donkey ride home.

Faithful whistler, rabbit counter,
time eater, patient listener.

Some trains run faster than Flash,
but we’re in no hurry. Little donkey,
what we love about you is
you’re just a creature, like us.