Saturday, 29 December 2012

Roma

Ribbon or buttons from Roma, Romany lace, warming her whole life around a mug of tea.

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Purse full of copper and silver for Saturday market. Five of the pink ones and a length please, fifty pence… was all. What could I say, I like your hair? She'd know I was lying; her curls were a mess more than mine.

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We were alike but it was like May trying to get next to October.

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My change in her fist. Feeling the numbers. Leveret sense twitch a warning, watch over her shoulder, no turning, and mine, run be ready. A posy of I can't explain slung on her back and a braid flower sewn on her hem.

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Girl out on the precinct parade, younger than the years ago. Scented and painted Cortina metallics, dull by Sunday tea-time desperation. I dread Monday morning.

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Did teachers at school show her or was it from a book Roma learnt how to twist fine satin around the dirt lines old in her palm?

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