Girls, Girls, Girls

Anthologised in ‘From Arthur’s Seat’ 2024

Something about twirling girls whispering country French 

with spindly arms and golden curls 

in the gentle streets of Beauvais 

up the road from where the worshipers go.

With legs worthy when they leap past puddles 

and carry them places they ought to see. 

Not worthy for how wide they’ll spread 

or for the worlds that could come between them.

They say that grief is love with nowhere to go 

but don’t you know that the hours you spend 

playing with her 

used to be spent dreaming?

That when you lay her down 

it’s like being tucked into bed 

after spending daring days scraping 

and Sundays praying . 

That’s why her knees bruise so quickly.

That the crown of her head that your lips think are theirs 

used to belong to her father. 

And the hand you hold and wrap around you 

once picked up her wee brother.

And the space on her neck 

that your hands ring like bells 

is the place where her mother laid down her pearls

thinking of the man that would love her.

Small things can grow up to be anything at all 

but that’s not as true as they say. 

So remember that before 

she grew up to be yours. 

She was hers - just like all the other girls.