Jenny King
Before the Fair
Lying on the bed in my daughter’s flat,
following the line her hand makes
above her eye
and the teetering mascara brush, up and down
in little flicks,
I’m suddenly back in childhood, before the fair:
my French friend’s elder sister, the sophisticate,
sits at the mirror
before the world of coloured pots and powders
I’m sure I’ll never master -
let alone going out with that controlled haste
into such hubbub as begins to claim her:
and my slight command
of the language can’t find even a word of fellowship.
But my daughter turns,
letting me look, with a glance to show she’s finished,
and now with the passage of years I can smile in my head
for Anne-Marie
and for my timid self so long on watch.
Right, says my daughter. I’m ready now. Let’s go.
Page(s) 57
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