When coming through those difficult teen years, we often have challenges and often make bad choices. I made my fair share. Kestrel Lager was one.

When I was 15, 16, 17, I was a tare away. As were many of my friends. We weren’t really disrespectful to the adults, who passed us, whilst we had a sly swig of something we legally shouldn’t have. But we would certainly have been cheeky, boisterous, messy and potentially uncaring for the environment, as we left our bag of swag behind for others to clear up. *Editor – not condoned*

Not everyone gets it right, no matter how hard we try. But many youngsters go through similar ‘rites of passage’ in fact generation after generation after generation. And often in the same place. But hopefully they mature and become fine adults, and get the privilege to moan about the next generation, in a kind of pot/kettle approach. Back in the day, our getaway was behind garages, bus stops and in woodlands but some have theirs underneath a bridge. Its my right to moan as much as the next 50 something, but I might view it from my glass house.

Underneath the bridge

 

Underneath the bridge, where the broken glass lies,

where the lassies cry, and the passers by,

with walking sticks, and litter picks,

listen to Stevie Nicks. Edge of seventeen.

Underneath the bridge, us adults scorn,

as a rite of passage is born, whilst the literatures torn,

by the girls and the boys, at the changing of the toys,

same nuisance, same noise. As if its seldom seen.

Underneath the bridge, as the darkness does fall

they cavort and they sprawl, graffiti on the wall

safe in their number, rarely encumbered

as the adults start their slumber. Inspiring another dream.

Underneath the bridge, as others snuggle in bed,

Its generation Z, being easily led,

in different clothes, along the same path that we chose,

but never disclose. Passing the gene.

Underneath the bridge, just as day it does break

as the heads that do ache, consider the next mistake,

and the passers by, with disdain they do try,

to look ruefully wry. Because it has always been.

R G Robb © 2022

Underneath the bridge Poetcast

Check out videos at Poetcast video