Walking with Nieces
 
The sky has lost its grip
& snowflakes idle down, land
on my beanie hat, shoulders.
 
We walk in the frosting air. The girls
coast across crystallised puddles,
mittened, scarved & screaming
 
as a lurk of black ice
takes their feet. Their bones
carefree, full of milk’s generosity.
 
My wimpish footfall
mocked. They loop around
in bleak folds of light,
 
impersonate Miley Cyrus
& here I can impress. Name the song.
Get it wrong. Their derision
 
takes off
like a runaway sledge. Cold
seeps into my Jurassic blood.

Simon French

If you have any thoughts about this poem,  Simon French   would be pleased to hear them