Old Nightmares

Where the fairground used to be.
Night's necklace of globed colours
swinging in salt breeze; lovers,
car-lovers, shy couples blinking
at the carny, shifting weight,
the shuffle of Grosbys in the grit,
sweat-stained change fingered
in pockets, chiko-rolls and chips.

Always a lost child
restored to the begetters
with a melted liquid face
red as sunburn, sunset;
the saline channels follow
gravity's chaotic chance-path
down soft planes of skin,
wash the way for and seed
the later map of wrinkles.

Trinkets hardly worth the eye
and arm-throw, let alone the dollar
are clutched as trophies;
in the other hand the big hand
that holds safe animal warmth
and almost defeats the string
of bright spots, the rider's screams.