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| (Dragonfly by Jon Tremaine) |
Here we are in Truro, town sized city.
While Boy is at a meeting about a narrow boat expedition, his friend intends to take on Christmas shopping and win. A rendezvous point is decided. It will be my second of the day. My parents surprise me by not being late.
Cobbled streets hiss and spit with frying food. Wide faced woman in a blue coat taunts the human statue. She calls him 'Magic man! Magic man!' He moves like stone, heavy with patience. Children hoot. Stalls are boxed and spread with colour and things that shine. I buy a card from an artist in Victorian dress, a finely lined drawing of a dragonfly, wing patterns wound with depictions of native wild things.
Granny Meg leads the way through a line of charity shops. Granpa Jim left his last coat on the rocks. She gets him a replacement for a fiver.
'Fishing,' she says, affectionately annoyed.
'Yeah and I lost my phone.' Sheepish Granpa.
We find a table on a mezzanine and order lunch. Warm foccacia, the gloss of good olives, sharp sip of espresso. Tranquil, languid talk. After goodbye at the Park & Ride bus, I find the boys and light rain slips from the sky. Shoppers stop, look up at the double rainbow.
We're early to the cinema, out of the rain, we have a row to ourselves.
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| 'portraying an abundance of nature' www.jontremaine.com |
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