Doc-Marten rebel

Something Ladylike

Prom was a week away and, to my deepest surprise, I was excited. 

“Are you ready?”

My question was posed from behind the door. I rushed through it and into the living room, without bothering to wait for a response. Mum was curled up on our faded old sofa, wrapped up in a shawl despite already being by the fire, nursing a cup of tea and a slice of shortbread. I’d caught her engrossed in one of her dull antique programmes. She reluctantly muted it at my arrival, patting around half-heartedly in search of her glasses, keeping her eyes on the screen. 

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TADPOLES

Scooped from the Mallard pond 

like tapioca on a spoon,

and plopped in Mammy’s tatty bucket, 

the seething silver jelly

boils grey in the sun.

Kids queue for the squirming quarry:

2 bob a bag. 

And you,

with size-5,

8-up,

Doc-Marten boots,

extinguish the enterprise.

1000 lives expire

on the slick shining path.

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