“Quoth he… ‘Are ye going to Deerfield Fair?’ ”

(With thanks to a famous ballad, and an infamous bird)

It was cold, dreary, it was windy; 
I warmed my hands on Goldens’ tongues and St. Bernard fur
I smiled.

There was music, coffee, there were funnel cakes; 

I drank in my fill of texture and colour
I smiled.

Copper, and ceramics, paintings, and photos; 

I shopped in my mind placing each just so
I smiled.

Ceramic tiles of cats and ravens; 

a printed orang-utan with a rubber ducky
I laughed… I cried… I smiled

Hottish water, Epsom bubbles, 

closing eyes and sinking into oblission; a well-read book
I stretched…I smiled… I sighed.

Ronda R. Scott-Marak
© 31 May 2015