We are dandelions on the grass.

Pale and slight,

any breeze might

blow us away.
All around us, the vines

obscure the harsh lines

of stone steps          angular borders
Behind apron and pinafore,

our small hands work in our pockets:
a bead                                        a wooden spool

a coin for a wish          and its passage to safe harbour
Her ringlets couldn’t be more curly.

My hair is flat as tack bread.

‘Shall we?’ she asks,

eyes bright as a meerkat’s.
We link pinkies, friends for now,

though the knives might be out

come supper-time.