Children of the seventies by Luigi Marchini

Children of the seventies

A lipsticked girl dropped her purse
when snow fell hardest,
on the corner
between boulevard
and side road.
Ripped sleeves
and the black eyes
you’ll never forget.

You helped her search;
fingers grazed
as branches snapped,
crows cawed,
silence ripped away.
Just the two of you:
stand-off in the dusk
the white wet
and dripping.

Today you remember:
snowflakes, largest you ‘d seen,
wind music when the thaw came,
birds singing almost too close.
Flowers springing up in slush
trees growing taller.

No longer sodden nor even pink,
it lays on the floor by her side;
you hesitate.


‘Luigi Marchini was brought up in London where he spent many a happy maths and physics lesson at the National Film Theatre. Since escaping to Kent some years ago he been chairman of the Canterbury based SaveAs Writers’ groupSaveAs Writers’ group.

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