In Greenhead park's drained paddling pool a black cast iron water spout stands three feet tall; a puddle of ***** rainwater reflects it's rusting brown base. Red capital letters warn Don’t go into the Water when there is No Attendant, another sign says No Dogs.
This Victorian ironwork pipe waits for August when it will fill the pool with water and welcome excited, splashing children. Round the shore families will enjoy vanilla ice cream or sit on plaid blankets eating ham sandwiches and blueberry muffins washed down with tepid coke.
I gaze at the sleeping iron spout and remember a blistering childhood August when the pool was full every day and no one thought about lifeguards or dogs.
Ralph and I chased each other round the pool: our bare feet felt rough concrete through the shallow water. He dared me to explore the overflow as it trickled into a dark York stone tunnel. I followed Ralph down the cold, cramped culvert to the starlight of distant planets.
We walked through Skaro’s black and white petrified forest and helped Dr Who to defeat the Daleks in their ozone electric metal city.
Transported to another universe we boldly went to seek new people and civilizations. Ralph and I were red blooded Captain Kirk and green blooded Spock.
In September school called us back to earth but the pool stayed full of water ready for winter ice.
Today I walk past the hibernating paddling pool as it dreams of summer fullness and meditate on the roles I played after last paddling in this pool.
Greenhead park is near the house I grew up in. These thoughts occurred to me as I walked our dog Miley.