Monday, 7 September 2009
I watch the two girls through the smoke,
their faces both old and young;
they sit, legs stretched, warming their socks at the fire,
they six o'clock to my twelve.
Curl-head leans forward like a minute hand,
lithe and tired in the one movement.
Long-hair strokes her back,
runs strong fingers from her waist
up, over her shoulders,
tap tap tapping the length of her arm
to flick bad spirits away through her hands.
She smiles, smug and serene,
sips her chai
and waits her turn.
Late (again) for TFE's exercise. Forgot it was Monday. Many brain cells left in a muddy field in Stradbally.