Essence

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.