The march

Up and down we march for endless weeks of something. Windows we pass, lines of colourful array.. but we just march on penniless as we are, my arm through yours, your arm through mine. Under that arch we go. You wearing that hideous brown coat, the one I hate so much. You used to drape it over me when I was young and felt sick on Saturday afternoons. I would lay still on the sofa, hideous under that itchy monster. To me it still smells of sickness.. I think it ridiculous and my arm itches terribly, placed through yours against its terrbile surface.

Parade of shops we skip past, the brown drapery sweeping around your ankles. You laugh and I realise I haven't told you how beautiful you are lately.. We watch the street in the ever changing colours of day and are the sole witnesses of the yellow colour of the arch turning to gold at dusk.

To my vision that street and your arm are the world. I cannot see your old skin or tired eyes, just like I cannot see the old buildings the bright lights are housed in. All is bright and alive and the hill presents no challenges to our new limbs or perfect breath. We march on endlessly, looking ridiculous.. You old in a shaggy coat, me young in a T-shirt with the goose-bumps rising up from my frozen arms.