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.



  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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