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.