I'd cast a richly coloured shadow ...

When I was nine years old, I'd talk to our neighbour, Mr Mortimore -

He'd been in the Tank Corps - 

Upon his forearms were mysterious tattoos, blue swirling shapes lost amongst the veins - 

He'd tell me about the war in the desert - 

His garden shed was filled with strange machines - 

He smelled of oil and sand - 

The memory came back me in West Street - 

I was walking past The Studio - 

I gazed inside - 

A bearded man was inking a serpent upon a girl's outstretched arm - 

How would it be, I wondered, if I had tattoos - 

Under my shirt there might be a crescent moon - 

My daughter's names would be written upon my skin - 

Oak leaves might entwine my wrists - 

I'd cast a richly coloured shadow - 

14.51

Friday 7 September 2016

Standing outside The Studio tattoo parlour 

West Street

Wareham

Dorset