title. My Yellow Trainers
name. Flora Beagley
right now. Third Year studying History at University of Edinburgh
Through thick and thin you have topped my feet
Sitting there your colour upbeat
Shining like glowing fields of wheat
(This rhyming scheme is incomplete).
Well fuck you Yeats and your clever prose
Your words do not compare to my toes
That shine so bright under my nose
This poem will be better than your woes.
Mam always said “don’t trust a man in yellow socks!”
(Or more importantly who owns bright crocs)
I didn’t find this too unorthodox
Until my own arrived in the mail box.
I tore through tissue to get to the things,
What dizzy excitement new shoes brings,
Their poignant colour gave me wings,
This colour was surely made for the Kings.
I wore them to things and they wore me well,
Who chose who is an answer I couldn’t tell,
If I knew I would say but let’s not dwell,
My shoes simply have no parallel.
Damaged at a music fest under the sun,
I felt some guilt but couldn’t help my fun,
Under Berlin’s sky I never felt so young,
Under this colour a new boldness had sprung.
I marched them around along cobbled streets,
Their yellow blur in time to strong music beats.
If they behave they’re allowed to rest on seats,
Resting on laps where finger-sole meets.
I had to grow into them and stretch for the new,
And now I find them resting among something more blue.
Not the blue of a coat or a new clothing hue,
But a feeling, an idea that has come into view.
Their yellow has rubbed off into my skin,
Not obvious, invisible and deeply within.
A brightness I needed and a very loud din,
Has suddenly silenced and is not but has been.
I used to look down and be reminded of it,
But now it is a light inside of me lit.
Sometimes I stand and think or read and sit,
But this follows me everywhere, a sort of kit.
I don’t need him or her or you or that,
Or my glowing trainers that triggered chat,
Their boldness I absorbed and they are now flat,
A deflated pair, a banana skin splat.