A Prose Poem

By Paul Baldry

Every winter, Donkey came to stay.

Where he spent his summers in Skegness was of little concern to three Nottingham boys. All we knew was that when winter arrived, so did our four-legged accomplice, returning to our brickyard home as though he had never been away.

We simply called him Donkey.

He needed no grander name.

He was stubborn, clever, mischievous and possessed of that particular innocence animals wear when they know perfectly well, they have done something wrong.

My brothers and I adored him.

Together we explored fields and muddy tracks, climbed banks and wandered places we probably shouldn’t have. Donkey would plod beside us until some private thought entered his head.

Then the trouble usually began.

One cold morning he disappeared.

No Donkey.

Just an empty space where a donkey ought to have been and three boys suddenly realising that losing one might require an explanation to Mum.

We searched everywhere.

But Donkey wasn’t lost.

Donkey was having an adventure.

He had apparently decided our brickyard home had become rather dull and that Carlton Top might offer better entertainment.

Off he went.

No permission.

No escort.

No concern whatsoever for the consequences.

By the time he reached Carlton Top, our wandering fugitive had attracted enough attention that even the law became involved.

And so came the sight I can still smile about today.

A policeman bringing our donkey home.

There stood Mum.

There stood three worried boys.

There stood one weary policeman.

And there stood Donkey, looking remarkably pleased with himself.

We received the telling-off.

Donkey received none.

He merely brayed.

I’m certain he was laughing.

That was Donkey.

Trouble followed him like a shadow.

Sheep might suddenly find themselves joining one of his adventures. Food left unattended became fair game. Gates seemed to exist merely to test his ability to escape through them.

And somehow, when the chaos was over, it was impossible to remain angry with him.

One look from those knowing eyes and we forgave everything.

Winter after winter he returned, and each arrival reopened the book of childhood adventures exactly where we had left it.

Then, as happens with everything we believe will last forever, the visits became fewer.

Donkey grew older.

So did we.

Eventually there came a winter when our old friend did not return.

There was no braying.

No escape.

No policeman walking him home.

Just memories.

Yet even now, whenever my mind wanders back to those childhood days around the brickyard, I can see him.

Three boys following behind.

Donkey leading from the front.

Probably somewhere we weren’t supposed to be going.

Time has taken the fields, the winters and the boys we once were and placed them safely inside memory.

But it has never quite caught Donkey.

He’s still escaping.

Still causing trouble.

Still standing at Carlton Top wondering what all the fuss is about.

And somewhere in my memory, a tired policeman is still bringing him home while three brothers desperately try not to laugh.

Some childhood friends leave footprints upon our lives.

Ours left hoofprints.

As a boy growing up around the brickyard, winter often brought a very special visitor into our lives—Donkey. He was clever, stubborn and always ready for mischief, once even escaping to Carlton Top before being returned by a policeman! My brothers and I loved every adventure with him. This prose poem remembers those carefree days, our long-suffering Mum, and an old four-legged friend whose hoofprints remain firmly stamped upon my childhood memories.

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