The Magician and me

When crumpled papers rose and hovered the merry-go-round velvet brim of your hat, unfolding dancers in the lightening flight of birds, their spindle stretches were feathered grace -

still shot flickbook seamless movement in a thousand clicks of wing -

and I was a scruffy ball, sat on the pavement spellbound; you, shelving ambivalence, not only for the coins on the bridge, but for a glimpse of wonderment. "Never tell how", you had said, tapping your nose, "leave a smile for later", in no doubt that there would always be magic tomorrow - sure as a loaf of bread, a bottle of ale, and a coin for the tin.

"How on earth did she manage to get there??" Great views always expanded over the brow of this bridge. If this is our very same streetlamp, the echo of flagstone, we would have walked it; the silence, the climb; juggling music scores up the hill to a smell of kerosene; the alleyway, the archways of scarves pouring fountains from my top pocket like fireworks - fire jugglers running their batons over a skin of tongues.

I still look out for you at each festival bar, and one day, there you will be, drinking mead, telling tall stories; and I'll stay, lean against the canvas doorway of the marquee, for the one you tell about the disappearing scruffy ball.


jan08