The Trampoline Marathon
(with broken rhyme enjambments)

It was spring, my eyes were itchy with pollen.
You and I and our classmates had volun
teered for a 24 hour spons
ored trampoline marathon. The respons
ibility for our welfare
Lay with a man called Ian Rigg. There
Was a rule:
Any kids found on the school
Playing field during the night
Would be
Sent home immediately.

The undersides of our socks were grey with the dust
Of the sports hall – we bounced without shoes on;
But when we were not bouncing,
Waiting for our turn,
You told me you dream of a house you call
The three ‘o’clock house, because on the wall
Is a clock
That always says three ‘o’clock.

It was spring, my eyes were itchy with pollen.
You and I and our classmates had volun
teered for a 24 hour spons
ored trampoline marathon. A séance
Took place in reboundful midair:
I heard you ask “is anybody there?!”
Was a rule:
Any kids found on the school
Playing field during the night
Would be
Sent home immediately.

While attempting to contact the dead,
You bounced with one arm above your head,
The other sticking out to your side -
In the three ‘o’clock position.
Quite soon, when your arms were supplied
Not with blood, but the acquisition
Of a spirit, I watched
As your right arm was notched
60 degrees in an ant
iclockwise direction – a slant
Suggestive of ten to the hour;
A lithe, athletic power
Had entered into your being,
Its clock’s hands disagreeing
With where your hands had halted.
You turned and tucked and somersaulted
Like a circus acrobat!
“Is anybody there?” was all it took
To determine the spirit was that
Of the Georgian poet, Rupert Brooke.
I’m still not sure if you meant to
Be a channel for him in partic
ular, but his clock was at ten to
Three, and the semaphoric
Gesture you made with your arms
Was altered, accordingly.
As strong as the nails through the palms
Of the man at quarter to three,
The poet now held you at ten to,
Like the clock in the poem he had sent to
Edward Marsh,
His friend and biographer.


The song version is here.