a man
and a woman
and a man
and another one
and another woman
each with cameras around their necks and the lens caps on
speaking in voices loud, soft, hushed, disbelieving
never dismissive
they are many, but if we were here in summer they would be more;
a man and his son
two generations of tall
and noses,
made for short people’s faces,
drifted from cousins perhaps, or aunts;
a girl who twists her finger into her hair and smiles the way of
the boy who, as we waited outside, brushed his hand against hers
and his soul against mine
leaving on mine the kind of bruise which his has not yet earned;
their teacher, who I envy not, over-filled bag over stretched shoulder
she has seen their look
and looked away
and now she talks to the girl who sits,
on the chair against the pillar,
arms crossed against her chest
her gaze on David;
sisters growing old together
diamond rings
and scarves in shades of cream
nods answering words in the rhythms
of the known and the expected;
a woman watching;
me and my lads on the bench circling behind
youngest sketching Roman soldiers
and the eldest listing synonyms
derriere, posterier, ass, arse, buttcheeks, butt, bum, bum-bum, earths.
Photo by Rico Heil ((User:Silmaril)) (private photo) [GFDL (www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html) or CC-BY-SA-3.0 (www.creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/)], via Wikimedia Commons
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Nice, very nice twist in the tail-end there.
I love the sisters’ nods especially.
Tail-end. Good one.