Like me you were born in Liverpool,
and after the war, as soon as you reappeared in the shops,
Dad was first in the queue for my birthday present.
The introductory box for beginners contained
perforated strips of red metal, nuts, bolts, spanner,
screwdriver, an axle and a pair of wheels. Magic.
I couldn’t wait to turn you into small feats of engineering,
a miniature Golden Gate Bridge, a scale model
of the Titanic, a two-wheeled double-decker bus.
But there was less to you than met the eye,
and although my father would sit beside me,
boyish and enthusiastic about cobbling together
a pair of ladders, a crucifix or a luggage trolley,
little Isambard Brunel would wander off to rummage
in mother’s sewing box. Sorry, Meccano.
My best times were spent as a fireman during the Blitz,
rushing fearlessly into burning buildings to rescue zips,
buckles and bra-fasteners trapped in tangled heaps of red metal.