I waited there at Kensington Tube
My skinny teenage legs
framed by lemon yellow hotpants
and cute matching socks
chin up and posing
the cheap and cheerful
Chelsea Girl look
No second glances for me though
Despite my twiggyness
Despite the nervous shaking of
my thin blond mane
or thick eyeliner applied in vogue
neither the regular tune of the trains
nor the checking of my chunky watch
stopped the time
and each minute past the hour
Became a taunt
Until the truth struck
and mascara running
I rued my platform soul
Yes, this is me in the sixties!
Taken at Daneshill Lakes a few weeks back!
Oh I’d like to be a spoon
canoodling with my chums
laying in the kitchen drawer
bums to shiny bums
I’d be used to scoop up ice cream
and savoury soups and stews
I’d sit on the saucer of a china cup
while my owner was reading the news
I’d serve the loose white sugar
to make the tea taste sweet
my humble tum would hold it all
and keep the table neat
Oh to be a silver spoon
amongst the great and good
and be used for grand occasions
to help them eat their pud
The rebellious brush drops blobs of paint
speckling my masterpiece with muddy colour.
Perspective lost, I rip the canvas
I didn’t like the picture anyway
The face was pinched and
the shoulders hunched.
Standing alone looking lost.
Yes, it looked like me.
But even the flowers seemed askew
rebuking me for the dull sky
and the not so green grass.
Where were my rose-coloured glasses?
I blame the palette.
The colours that don’t comply.
Yet when I glance toward the mirror
I see the truth
The sun has given way to
a gunmetal sky that brings
a strengthened wind
cooling the air and agitating
the leaves on the summer trees
The birds are frenzied
They know the signs
and sing anxious songs
as they search for
safe roosts in the prickly hedgerow
The roses droop
No rain for days, but
they’ll regret their careless wishes
when each heavy drop dislodges
their delicate rainbow colours
Then the thunder breaks
and lightening unzips the heavens
The world silently listens to the show
while rivulets of rain pattern the pane
and puddle on the thirsty earth
My eyes snap open
and in darkness I am alert.
Was that a child’s shout?
Or a lost gull perhaps,
screaming for the sea
above this inland island garden?
It may have been the angry screech of
An engine, scarring the road
With it’s speed
Or perhaps it was the ghostly wail
of someone long gone
who cares to visit me at night.
Yet still, it could have been
a longing cry that escaped my own lips
as I remembered that lost caress.
Or perchance it was the frail path
and sleep traversing,
and that sound,
it was in my dreams
just part of my imaginings
Crisp, green and juicy
When will you be ripe enough
for me to savor?