A Naughty Poem by a Bad Girl
The Lake
By Jackie Griffiths
The lake flows through wisps
of my hair
though I sit here at my desk.
I remember his father
took me in his arms
awakening the discontent,
his eyes into my mind.
He said he moved into me then,
even though the audience was looking.
They stared, thousands of them,
all yellow hair and brown faces,
viewing our silent defection.
Later, he just threw my luggage
on the train,
and with it
a gulp of agitation.
I forgot about the audience
and took a step forward
daringly blowing a kiss,
my lips into his memory
churning my stomach.
I remember how the
colours of the lake
swirled then, in his eyes
as they do now in my hair,
as I sit at my desk and
think of his father.