For G.D.M.
To walk around Dreamland and
not take the rides: not much of a plan
but the man’s face changed all that,
took me back to a candy floss summer
when I learnt to spin sugar from a boy
who looked the same as this guy who
stood by the sign ready to start the train.
He was the boy who lived in the caravan
and sprinkled candy sugar on his Weetabix
because he liked to see milk turn pink.
I watched him practise his three-card trick.
And here he was, older but still his voice
when he said because we were only two
in the queue he’d make the train go slower.
He pressed the button and the doors swung.
With a scream we jerked away and towards
ourselves in a gyration of mirrors and ghouls.
Darkness and light, I was me and not myself.
Slower? I couldn’t say, time and direction lost
before we were back and you said something wet
had touched your neck. ‘You felt that, not many do’
he said and stared at you. I remembered that first
ride when a skeleton stroked my face and wondered
if this time it really was you who held my hand.
