Red Shoes

London, just before
the 60s stopped swinging.
It’s Sunday, when
not being at church
feels like day release.
No-one here to shock
with the length, or lack,
of her red tartan mini.

This autumn of autumns,
her first week of college,
all doors are open;
her sound-palette – red-gold
leaves crisping under-
foot, wolf-whistles.
Kensington Garden kites
nod as she passes, approvingly.

Later that term,
the red shoes catch
up with her. Thought
she’d outgrown them, but
finds them still laced
to her ankles, tracking her
like a couple of sharks
on the scent of blood.

Jenny Hill, 2018