Being kissed by Yvonne

by kvennarad

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She’d sipped her blackcurrant juice

to make her mouth sweet for kissing me;

no one turned a hair; the geezer in the corner

chewed his stout and sighed at the air;

it’s always the halfpenny’s tar or the nail

that scuttles love, but right then the clock

was ticking and still had its run, still had

time to make its bloody murder of us.

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An old poem of mine, ‘By Ballachulish Bridge’ is now on the StAnza Poetry Festival’s Poetry Map of Scotland site. It’s No. 303. Please visit.

©Marie Marshall