MAGGIE RAINEY-SMITH

Love in the Fifties

She wore a second-hand,
button-through frock
covered in rosebuds

a belt at her waist
of the same fabric
and black patent shoes

he wore corduroy trousers
a silver cigarette tin in his
back pocket and carpet slippers

they paid half a crown at the
turnstile and Tex Morton sang
‘Old Shep’ on the slow ride

she loved candyfloss and
he lost his front tooth
to a toffee apple

they marvelled together at
the half-man half-woman,
the one white thigh

he proposed on the ghost
train and she screamed
as the skeletons rattled

she wore a hat with
matching gloves and
carried a small bump

they stoked the fire together
and the hot water rumbled
over the red roof tiles

when the ditch was filled
with rainwater and he
was so full that he fell

she dried his clothes on
the rack above the stove
where the roast rested

And there’s more; more
than the rain and the
lost footbridges; barbiturates

This is only the start
but who
has the time nowadays?