Janice adjusts
the red beret
on her fair hair
and pulls at the hem
of her dress
as she sits
on the wooden seat
of the swing
in the park.
I sit on the swing
next to her,
ready to kick off,
my feet on the tarmac,
my eyes glued on her.
She winces.
Gran spanked me last night
for saying
that four letter word
you taught me.
You weren't supposed
to tell your gran.
You never said
not to tell;
I didn't know
what it meant.
Sorry,
I should have
told you.
(I didn't know,
but I don't tell her that).
She pushes off
with her feet
and she's air borne;
her sandalled feet
high in the air
as the swing goes backward
then forward.
I push off, too,
holding tight
to the steel links
on each side of the swing.
Maybe your gran
should have washed
your mouth out
with soap
instead of a spanking.
I wish she had, too.
My old man's aunt
swears like a trooper;
I used to go
to Sunday tea with her
and her husband
and my Nan used to say:
that's enough
of that language,
there's children present.
What did did she say?
They don't know
what it means,
she used to say;
but Nan'd say, no,
but they might repeat it
to people who do.
And did you?
Janice asks.
No, at least not
if my parents
were around.
I am swinging higher
than her now;
my feet seem to reach
the nearest clouds.
She tries to swing higher,
but I am still higher,
by swinging backward
and forward on the seat
and the holding tight
to steel links each side,
I am up there
with the gods.
Have you ever
been spanked?
I look at her.
Once when I peed
in my toy box
and my cousin
told my mum.
She pulls a face.
How ***** of you.
Yes, I guess;
Mum thought so.
I feel a breeze
in my hair and face
as I ride high,
swinging back and forth
on the swing.
She's beside me
trying hard to reach
as high as I am;
her feet reaching up,
her legs swinging madly;
her body going
backward and forward;
her red beret,
clinging on
for dear life
on her head.
I reach my maximum height;
my feet touching
Heaven's gates
or so seems,
my body going
back and forth
as much as it can.
She’s almost there,
smiling,
the wind riding
through her flowing
fair hair.
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 1:57 AM UTC
Janice adjusts
the red beret
on her fair hair
and pulls at the hem
of her dress
as she sits
on the wooden seat
of the swing
in the park.
I sit on the swing
next to her,
ready to kick off,
my feet on the tarmac,
my eyes glued on her.
She winces.
Gran spanked me last night
for saying
that four letter word
you taught me.
You weren't supposed
to tell your gran.
You never said
not to tell;
I didn't know
what it meant.
Sorry,
I should have
told you.
(I didn't know,
but I don't tell her that).
She pushes off
with her feet
and she's air borne;
her sandalled feet
high in the air
as the swing goes backward
then forward.
I push off, too,
holding tight
to the steel links
on each side of the swing.
Maybe your gran
should have washed
your mouth out
with soap
instead of a spanking.
I wish she had, too.
My old man's aunt
swears like a trooper;
I used to go
to Sunday tea with her
and her husband
and my Nan used to say:
that's enough
of that language,
there's children present.
What did did she say?
They don't know
what it means,
she used to say;
but Nan'd say, no,
but they might repeat it
to people who do.
And did you?
Janice asks.
No, at least not
if my parents
were around.
I am swinging higher
than her now;
my feet seem to reach
the nearest clouds.
She tries to swing higher,
but I am still higher,
by swinging backward
and forward on the seat
and the holding tight
to steel links each side,
I am up there
with the gods.
Have you ever
been spanked?
I look at her.
Once when I peed
in my toy box
and my cousin
told my mum.
She pulls a face.
How ***** of you.
Yes, I guess;
Mum thought so.
I feel a breeze
in my hair and face
as I ride high,
swinging back and forth
on the swing.
She's beside me
trying hard to reach
as high as I am;
her feet reaching up,
her legs swinging madly;
her body going
backward and forward;
her red beret,
clinging on
for dear life
on her head.
I reach my maximum height;
my feet touching
Heaven's gates
or so seems,
my body going
back and forth
as much as it can.
She’s almost there,
smiling,
the wind riding
through her flowing
fair hair.
A BOY AND GIRL IN 1950S LONDON IN A LOCAL PARK.
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