Fairy Floss [published in of Arc & Shadow]

At the fairgrounds,
we succumb to the fragrance
of soft cocoons of pink.
On a signboard, sun-crinkled packets
burst an arrangement of colour
like the first release of spring crocuses.
Our hands are caricatures of childhood
as we reach for our wares, old collectors’
cards from tattoo stalls, fortunes told.
The expectant looks we gave
at the fairy floss stand.
Was it sixpence, or two shillings
we paid at Easter for a thick swirling stick?
We confess, we eat three packs,
leave one tri-colour tub for home. Sup like bees
in the apartments of nectar and bud.
This cotton candy – all light and sugar,
this pink homesickness;
this fairy floss
that dissolves
before taste has a chance.

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