Snail shells

I remember a stream near Scrayingham ,          
beside the road, gurgling beneath a bridge            
hundreds of snail-shells, bright jewels shining            
on a Saturday afternoon,July I think it was.       
Our bikes tossed on the bank,home            
twenty miles away,we came here often            
my girl and I she was  pretty,sang contralto            
I a tenor, her dad taught me to sing            
sitting at a Hopkinson piano, made in Leeds.            
Remember many other things,but            
that's  another time, more than the        
twenty miles from home collecting            
snail-shells beside a stream at Scrayingham            
making love beside the gurgling brook,        
white thighs, black hairs and hazel eyes.