Essence

March 12, 2015 at 6:59 pm (Poems) (, )

We race down river,
past crisp white tennis players:
two gloriously best friends,
eating oranges quartered
with a dangerous knife,
the juice squeezed
directly into our mouths.

Someone bakes potatoes
wrapped in tin foil
on a smoky open fire,
and we smell of charcoal,
fresh air and old perfume,
and wear broken dress jewellery
borrowed from our mothers.

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2 Comments

  1. nobodysreadingme said,

    This is really very evocative, Julia. Never been a girlie, but I certainly get the sense here. 🙂

please feel free to comment on these poems - all feedback appreciated. :)

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