As If

 

As if you stepped down from the dizzying roundabout

with its galaxies of lightbulbs and its spinning column of mirrors,

its landscapes of Arcadia in lozenges and roundels

 

and turned your back to the horses so various,

the leaping panther and the galloping zebra,

the pink flamingo and the gilded rhinoceros

 

and moved through the fairground

-all the faces meeting, parting-

to the edge of the park, where a little stream runs rustily

 

-iron from the moors- and you wash the hot-dog grease

the candyfloss stickiness from your face and your fingers.

 

You will take your shoes off next, walk just a little further

on the sparse grass beneath sycamores, bits of twig and old sweet papers

 

and sit down now

and touch the earth.

 

Clair Mullineaux