Spring finds you, tall daughter
reaching below the table.
Looks maybe 7?
Carried by the odour of outgoing buttered toast
and frayed, coarsely stretched pillow cases, softened by years of tapping
whilst perched in waiting.
Running towards the door, feet used to be met with
the intrusive ridges of a commercial carpet.
Lying on it could mean only two things those days:
shoulder stands and carpet burn.
Supple feet the size of an average women’s hands attempting truce over the screeches between
Edgware Road and Paddington Station
was proven impossible,
as they kick against the scuffed white walls.
As soon as the left and the right met at the middle they would
bump
and fall.
The closest we got, was a 67 degrees angle.
Back at square one, the smell of bubble baths permeated through the hallway. Ears would blink
at the sound of the cloud like bubbles
jostling with excitement.
Your small head would plunge beneath the surface muttering private woes to the closed plug. Sometimes, the bath would be too full and the plug would bounce open
spitting back at you.
After the bath, you were lathered in clotted-cream like lotion that smelt like
the first time you jumped from the rocks one summer in Northern Italy.
On holiday mornings, between the interminable quietness of meals
you would venture out into the green of your roughly shaped garden.
Picking up people along your way, to spend the afternoon,
plotting,
scaling,
digging,
climbing,
scratching,
and carving a lair.
Working feverishly, sometimes tolls would incur, in the form of stinging nettles
against exposed ankles and calves. Friends would then have to scour the area for doc leaves and anoint the wounded.
At the end of the day you were left with the scent of spit and doc leaves vigorously kneaded into
helpless flesh.
Your small head would plunge beneath the surface muttering private woes to the closed plug. Sometimes, the bath would be too full and the plug would bounce open
spitting back at you.