Beryl Lane

Beryl Lane

Kim Novak, Lana Turner, Beryl Lane.

No, just having you on.

Beryl Lane is no star from the fifties,

The fifties long gone,

Nor is she the sister of a Beatles’ song,

Nor the ghost of an old friend,

That comes to mind again

After half a bottle of wine,

The more’s the pity.

No, Beryl Lane was pointless work,

And now let me explain.

It’s a name,

The name of a road near school,

A steep hill, far too steep.

“And then you run up Beryl Lane and down Little Entry”

Said the master,

And we, cold in white T-shirts,

In 58 or 59,

And probably November,

Started off on our cross-country.

Exhausted with the stitch,

We reached the foot of Beryl Lane

But over there was the mouth of Little Entry,

Really not so far away.

It would be the work of a moment,

Just a moment to jog over there,

To miss out on the climb up the hill

And then back down again.

That was for the grand old Duke of York.

The master on duty saw to it,

As he saw to everything,

That we ran up Beryl Lane,

And into Little Entry at the top

And down again to where we’d been.

Up the hill and down again,

Would that really make us better men?

So often since,

Just as we did so long before,

On so many roads and races,

With no master there at all,

Have I run up Beryl Lane,

And down Little Entry once more.

Copyright  2013