Language is her caravan

top of the bank a big top, red with a sign,

misty, fantastical on the walk to school.

“My sister can’t express herself properly.

Imagine if those performers

were stuck in their caravans

forever. If round the back of the big top

the doors were locked. That’s her.

She’s a trapeze artist, lion tamer,

cramped clean-faced clown

drinking tea, practicing tricks,

movement through frosted windows.

Language is her caravan on bricks,

with tiny little windows in.”

At the weekend he and his sister

stood on the frosty bank

beside his metaphor. She read the poster

carefully, got them sat down in good time and at the back.

The trapeze artist, lion tamer, freshly-made-up clown

filled the top with a noise he could go on translating forever.

Walking home she opened her chest:

“I liked the mime best.”