I watch you two on your bitumen playground; wheels flying up and down the unkempt surface of our sleepy cul-de-sac.
You're not of this time and place, even though you sometimes pretend to be. Boredom and indifference abundantly belies you.
You’re the girls from number 16.
You’ve staked our modest street as your own.
Laid claim to its gutter-less arc through the sheer resourcefulness of your imagination.
Acquired its black cobbled bitumen as a blank canvas upon which your creationary zeitgeist occurs.
I watch you in awe.
You roll towards me - candy-cotton hair, cut off jeans, chocolate limbs. The two of you, amaranthine queens, stirring up interminable memories of indiscernible colour.
These are our afternoons; golden and slow, soon to surrender to the celestial light that quivers above - and within - you.
