The echoing rink spun with laughter so loud
That we cut ourselves off from the rest of the crowd.
As I fell on my arse for the fifth time, she said
“Why don’t we just go get some coffee instead?”
So a few moments later, still freakishly tall
On our skates, we sat down with our coffees and small
Talk; standing our spoons in a mixture so thick
We could turn up the mugs and the coffee would stick.
And we laughed about nothing and everything – love,
Religion, the third world, the hole in my glove;
Then her face dropped an octave, and softly she told
Me her worries, and how much she feared getting old.
“There’s plenty of time left for that,” I replied,
As the draught from the ice wrapped itself round my lie.
June 20, 2013
June 20th, 2013 at 11:57 am
You just vivaciousided that lovely poem.
June 20th, 2013 at 11:58 am
Thank you from the scottom of my fromp.
June 20th, 2013 at 12:01 pm
You’re bogsnurkle.
June 20th, 2013 at 12:52 pm
Skrankrinigol.
June 20th, 2013 at 12:24 pm
Very lovely, I imagined it like a movie. I cant ice-skate to save my life 🙂
June 20th, 2013 at 12:35 pm
Neither can I. I was always worried about twisting my ankle on those massive skates. That’d be a twist and a half.
June 20th, 2013 at 4:22 pm
Icefibberytastical.
June 20th, 2013 at 4:57 pm
ROFLMAO. That’s the best Jo. *wipes tear from eye*
June 20th, 2013 at 4:59 pm
You been taking those tablets that Stanley Unwin sold you again?
June 20th, 2013 at 5:05 pm
snorfirmative
June 20th, 2013 at 5:22 pm
That’d be a yarp then.
June 20th, 2013 at 5:23 pm
Yarp
June 21st, 2013 at 12:31 am
Lovely to read about ice when it’s about 2 degrees here and I’m freezing because the cat likes the back door open until 10. I don’t fear getting old, 70 is the new 50, so I’m told and no, I’m not 70 yet, just feel like it.
June 21st, 2013 at 12:36 am
I actually prefer being old, Witchy. I was born old. I didn’t reckon much to youth. It was all angst and naive optimism. Being old is grumpy and complainy and no longer caring what anybody thinks, which suits me to a tee.
June 21st, 2013 at 12:39 am
I like how this moves through mood to the sadness of the end. Nice structure, Brian.
June 21st, 2013 at 12:47 am
Ta. You can tell I’ve been in a nostalgic, wistful sort of mood today, can’t you? Must have been those pickled onions I had for lunch.
I was originally going to add a couple of lines about how the next time I saw her she was working behind the counter at Debenhams and how the working classes aren’t afforded the luxury of gap years and stuff about the end of youth etc. Fortunately the aforementioned pickled onions were repeating on me, so I didn’t.
June 21st, 2013 at 12:22 pm
🙂
June 21st, 2013 at 8:10 pm
I like this poem, I think you would be so funny on ice skates 🙂 (I can’t skate either)
June 21st, 2013 at 8:20 pm
There’s only so many times that falling over and banging my head can be funny. Well, from my perspective anyhow.
June 21st, 2013 at 8:31 pm
It wouldn’t be the falling over, it’d be the commentary 🙂
June 21st, 2013 at 8:32 pm
Blue ice.
June 21st, 2013 at 11:41 pm
Always opt for the coffee instead 🙂
June 21st, 2013 at 11:41 pm
Even if it is more like treacle.
June 22nd, 2013 at 12:51 am
Such an apparently simple poem telling a story, yet so much truth, fear and love bound up in it, especially the last line. Very good.
I tried ice skating once – I didn’t fall over too much, but then I was hanging onto the side of the rink most of the time. 😉
June 22nd, 2013 at 9:10 am
The barriers around ice rinks are indestructible, I think. They must take a massive pounding. They ought to build houses in places where there are a lot of tornadoes out of the same stuff, rather than bits of balsa wood.