The flock of diamanté dragonflies buzz on her shirt,
A silent fly-by beneath grey-haired sky,
Rhinestone insects, wings spread like summer flowers,
The trim of her trainers, pristine, white as self raising flour,
Ready to bake the most of each day,
Leaving tire tread footprints in the soft clay
Of gum on a pavement or mud in the park.
Fiddles with shades that pull back her hair,
A silent remark to show that she cares,
Despite how her skin hangs with a sunshine sag,
Despite the fact its the texture of an old serpentine bag.
I’ve an inclination to ask where exactly
The purse ends and the suntan begins?
Maybe beneath the luscious green stains
Supplied by gold plated, copper rings,
Bringing digits to life like
The rains on the plains of good old sunny Spain.
She’ll bequeath them one day, as either
A tacky postcard or an heirloom for kin,
Call it a passion for fashion?
More like original sin,
Just a set of toggles to tighten up ill fitting skin.