Pink with Purple Peonies
Fri, 12 Feb 2016
They’d be at it again...soon as they switched off
East Enders; me mum and me dad....
chucking abuse at each other, then she’d get rough –
kick his shins, punch his chest and he’d give her
what for. Who could blame him, poor sod?
Made me want to throw-up...it always did.
Then he’d do what she’d suggested, ‘Get the hell lost!’
scarper out back to the wood-shed, lick his wounds,
metaphorical or otherwise, and she’d
get stuck in to her gin...
stare straight through me as if I wasn’t there...
to hell and back, probably – where I’d already been.
Her mouth would twist and contort, do
a kind of a dance, almost.
She’d light a fag, a signal for me to be gone,
and so I’d do a runner, too. The hill on the heath...
where I headed; the wind in my face
and when I reached the top...the sting
of wet grass on my legs – him lifting
my skirt...pink it was, with purple peonies
and him, asking me how old I was, and what
did they call me, and as he spoke I saw
the wet tremble of his lips –
and clouds, like dragons, devoured
the hill-top, swallowed the sun - spat
them out again, in a way, no weather-man
That was when I saw it...one of those
big eagles, and although light-years above me
just sensed it was golden – green eyed; green,
like mine...green, the colour of envy
and pretty soon I’d be up there, too – that creature
and me, circling, soaring...sailing – flying, free,
over the heath...until
it dropped, like a stone, having bagged its quarry
captive of callous, clutched claws...one final,
fleeting memory of what liberty was
slow, soft air beneath its wings, succouring
such small longings...
it’s the sky, though, I shall remember the most...
pink it was, pink with purple peonies.