Crimson gulps tea

anxiously

rough hands grasping the mug

 

Off centre like Wednesday

Trying to get even

with seven

and at one with her past

 

She dreams on tip-toes

of grass birds nests

and the seagulls serenade.

Giggles at the secrets

snow whispers.

 

Reality is a five by seven mile

square

longing for curves.

It snaps rulers with its mind

and wills clocks to stop.

 

Nostalgia curls up

and thinks.

blinks back tears.

looks back.

Has built lack

with her own chapped hands.

 

Crimson hugs her past

it holds her at arms length

smiles beguilingly

malignant in its rejection

and forward thinking

in its backward glance.

 

Burger man

says his names Joe.

Cooks his sausage slow

for taste.

Warns that 'haste creates waste'

and winks.

She thinks she knows what he means

and smiles

as she whiles away another day