and youd be bouncing of the walls
the red lemonade was pounding in your blood
waiting for you with the ice melted and
the heavy set lad with the accordion was putting
the skinny boy strumming the guitar under pressure
while the drummer smiled the knowing look
of a lad who smoked rollies and whacky tacky
and didnt mind if the walls fell in or the women wept
as
the red lemonade called your name and your dad told stories
and your pupils widened with the additives which the gobshites
got rid of on account of the widening of
childers pupils
and the wall of limerick met the siege of Ennis and
the smoke rose
and the man at the bar laughed and slapped
the auld lad on the back for the gift of the yarns
and you bounced of the walls
and she had brown hair and green eyes and flares
and she smelt of daisies and sand
and she was 12 and you were 12
and she smiled back and the music rose
and the auld one in front of you
lost the run of herself and near swung you
into the wall and the siege rose higher and higher
and then dreams were lifting inside of your head
and the ice was melted and the fizz was fizzing in your stomach
and the farmers wife let you down and you kept spinning
and the girl who made sand castle with you in the morning sun caught your
eye and your heart smiled and the floor went away from you and you
bounced of the walls again
and your auld lad stood tall with
his perfect suit and the hair groomed and you were proud
he cut a figure and your ma wore dresses fit for films and
the accordion player lost all control of himself and the ballroom expanded and shrank
and they were yelping and cats were hiding and the gunniess
was spilling and the smell of the beach mingled with the smell of sweat and lynx and old spice
and you spun and spun and spun and
inside where no one would ever see
or touch
or understand
where words grew and grew
and thoughts formed and scrambled and reformed
beyond the taste of the red lemonade
where cross eyes and speech impediments
were essential and beautiful and magic
and crazy wildness
and a soft touch
and a strong grip
and the banshee’s wail
was a gift and a wonder and the well of freedom
well deep
in there
the 12 year
wished it would never end
Frankie at lunch time writing stuff 2nd august 2023