Brighton

Little red sports car cutting a dash on the Downs
Attracting admiring glances as it zipped into town
Just past rock ‘n’ roll, driving into the swinging 60’s
David Hemmings-like occupant with wind-feathered hair
Equally glam blonde beside him, more often than not

And then one day he drew up and asked her out on the prom
Her
Looked around, but no one else there.
She couldn’t believe it.
Was he taking the biscuit?
Should she turn him down, or should she risk it?
Not pretty enough, not confident.
She’d never keep him
Her fears prevailed and she refused him
Though he still pursued her on and off
In-between other girls.
Eventually a man she could accept
And a life less glittering.

Years went by and she bumped into Peter
Still handsome and bronzed over twenty years later.
Still single too,
Though no red sports car.
Blushes exchanged, he greeted me and my sister
Caught up with my mother as they shared some tea
Reluctantly parting, eyes red-regretful.

Two years later one breakfast, a Solicitor’s letter,
Found dead in his flat by the electric board man,
Alone. Unexplained. At forty five.
Father grunted. Our mother turned away.

Sometimes I still ponder on little red sports cars,
Opportunity and waste,
And what fear has forged my legacy...

© LS King 2003