Gypsy Nanna King
A prettiness that was plain beauty
till the flowering season wilted.
But it didn’t matter
that your skin grew parched
and stretched and tanned
and pounced and quilted
by the sunray pleat of wrinkles.
If there was room for flounces or a gem
a turn of lace, a froth of sequinned flair
a dotting of French knots on
skin, a surface brown and bare,
for a splash of gold and crystal
rainbow stain upon the crepey chest
that shadowed under.
From where bubbled
the fag corrupted voice
as low as August thunder.