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Steve Spence

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Dressing Up

Sitting under the sunshade with your aunt.
Red dress, red dress
& I’m walking behind you
& the sun’s catching your shoulder
& you’re singing that line from was it The Pixies?
& the charm’s beginning its work again
& your girlish grin.
I’m turning all soft and happy inside again
& it seems that when the spell’s upon me,
anything you do brings this on,
even scolding Rosie for pulling the cat’s tail.
I’d become small again to be scolded by you:
                                                               pleasure enough Damaris.

Damaris, that kiss, couldn’t sleep,
had to see you, to see
& there you were in the café window,
dirty hands from the allotment,
looking slightly mad, beautiful.
We’re talking the relative merits of root vegetables
& courgettes, & onions & carrots never seemed so real
& I’m smiling, you’re laughing
& I’m charmed by the names of your siblings
& by the black French poet who could be a contender
& the red dress is on the little girl
& the dwarf in off-season Venice.
Won’t be going there you said.

 

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