by Sandra Davies
and the sound of the fair, intermittent,
flies up the hill.
Raucous loud,
urge-to-join-in distortion,
coloured lights
causing memories to flash.
Dragging smoke swirling dodgem dark eyes
and sparks hinting at what I don’t know.
Tweed jacket and cap,
skinny lad,
knowing sloe-eyes
denying the promise his mouth makes.
Swinging easy and supple
and warns I would ask the wrong questions.
My ignorance swirling with premature ache for experience.
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