Oh yes you were singing green in a golden age, dancing by the waters’ edge, under a mosaic sky; feather-crowned, grass-patterned thighs, and seven-leagued boots, petrified mud, magenta amazed. Birds’ eggs for sale, a heart in exchange; sherbet-stained, lolly-pop thumbs, liquorice hair—ringlets up to the age of five, afterwards wrapped in tissue paper, kept in the right-hand side of the chest of drawers in Aunt Flo’s room, next to her own, when she was a girl, long black tresses which she fingered with that far away look.
