Rolling 'round in our fields of Oleanders and Suns. Two pairs of eyes adjusting to the nutjob vortex of purple and gold.
-anything Irish must have in it a blob of pretty and a fistful of crazy,
I had said -
Especially Irish Summers ! -
I suppose you had laughed.You found me funny, David, but David,
you found me.
You see, I was already done with faces by the time you strayed in, but
when you laughed, when you laughed with me, it would bathe me in a song-like
peace:)
Tell me,
do you still wear our June in your eyes, David? And o,
do you remember peace?
I remember afternoons.
Gypsy-afternoons brimming with light, and throughout, this gypsy ached to brim with you.
But I would always fight you away - throw pebbles and copies and
questions at you till I ran out of
pebbles and copies and questions. And then you'd ask your careless breath to
linger on my wrist and I would stop running.
Did you see me stop running, David?
Sometimes, David, when the seasons underwhelm me?
I close my eyes and try to feel you running your hands through the cheap velvet of your drama-class costume!
David you were Romeo, and I,
I was by your side.
Remember how pretty the trees looked through the tinted cellophane
of those 3D glasses you stole from Ms Connolly's locker at school? You had always fancied Ms Connolly's teacher-curves, don't tell me you didn't! God
I was so mad that you actually followed her to her locker! I swore I would never talk to you again. But.
What chance did I stand
against your June-filled eyes? Or that
stupid Sorry-Note scribbled out in your wiggly-ant handwriting.
Some days? I wake up an hour early to trace the ageing skin of your cursive little
'S '.
Tell me,
what chance did I stand,
David?
David I don't hang those feathery dream-catchers by my bed anymore. May be that is
why I have such strange dreams, you know? In my dreams you are always
in that grey jacket that you should have outgrown ten Decembers
back. In my dreams, your are kissed on your cheeks by your toothless
little boy. In my dreams David, your long-haired woman stands with her back to us, as she stirs your
soul and your dinner.And I follow your wishful gaze to the delicate arch of her shoulders. David,
she is beautiful.
In my dreams, you break into sweet sweat just at the sight of her silhoutte, in my dreams you
call her Megan. Then
Megan, pretty Megan, calls out to you
with her back still turned, but
when she calls out to you, David, she calls out to you
in my voice!
I never sang quite as often as you
would beg me to. Is that why you gave her
my voice, David? Would you give her
our song too?
O David,
remember that rhyme about the kitten who wanted to mix up all the colours? One that Grammy would sing to us after that staple St Patrick's Day dinner at yours..? And how she could never quite recall what the 'Colour-Kitten' came up with when he put Purple in Yellow and
Yellow in Purple? I have long since found out.
But you weren't there for me to run to. You weren't there for me to run to, with the soap from those half-washed dishes skating down my nose.
Do you still watch in wonder when some little girl twiches her button-nose, David? And o, do
you still hate reading sonnets?
It's been so long, David.
There have been wildflowers and there have been envelopes.
There have been dreams and there have been fevers.
But every year when the sun holds me by my ring-finger, I ache to let you know
what the kitten got when he mixed purple in yellow, and yellow in purple.
When there is purple in yellow, and yellow in purple,
David, there are -
Sorry-Notes that you sing to sleep. And O.
Pretty, crazy, Irish summers that span a lifetime!
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