Snow On Tottenham Court Road


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3. Ice Cream

 

Down Cardiff Bay, that rusted pier juts

Over the murky tide.  You reside

In this shop on stilts- a memory of summer heat,

Ruined by the restless wind.

Distantly, a hypnotic carousel turns,

Diligent in the hostile weather.

Nauseating music persistently repeats

Nostalgic nursery rhymes.

Horses dance like transverse waves,

Impaled by twisted poles.

 

Your cheeks flush like forest fruits,

Braised by the forceful slap of cold sea air.

No one could think to buy a cone now,

Though chocolate rimmed, a burlesque of wafer

Stands tantalisingly on the counter.

You scoop out spheres of icy pleasure;

They should melt and drip with raspberry sauce,

A race to lick up the escaping trickle, a smear

Of soft cream around the lips.

A dab on the nose.

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