Posted by Admin on 25 May 2006, 12:00 am
She left the beach to play
a dancing game around
the drinking fountain – stood
on tip-toe, chin to bowl,
her child’s body, in
its swim-suit, nymphal, poised
enquiringly, at odds
and yet affinitive,
in ruched and emerald
costume, to that new paint
which gleamed, dark green and white,
from pillars, pedestal,
ornate cast-iron roof,
that stand there, relics of
Victoria’s reign, disused,
but happily preserved
for childhood’s ploys – those rites
which innocence adorns
and briefly brings to us
who watch a glimpse of what
our lives once were, and now
can never be.
From The Hounds of Cridmore and Other Isle of Wight Poems, a book of Mr Hudson’s poetry with many illustrations by Heather Cobb.
T. C. Hudson
© T. C. Hudson.
Village
Parish Council