Poetic prose: Barbara


My friend spreads her branches

all the way from Aberdeen

down the wind to me.


A tree with hands like rafts

and a heart to slice for stepping stones;

she is my wand.


We are driving music, rock legends

for grown-up women

and elegant drunks.


Stages of our growth are evident

in albums, in sequences, in

sentences finished.


The future flashes images of dreams

and rings around trunks till

zimmers surround us.


January 2007 was cold; when we stepped off the plane heat engulfed us and the thought of a week under a strange hot sun raised our spirits. Spirits flew under the power of a plastic wristband – gently pickled but never actually drunk could describe most evenings though there was one that went as far as bouncing on beds and moving sun-beds on the terrace. Old age lends an elegance to behaviour but mostly experience brings boredom and a sense of been there done that.


The End

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