The Shoes You Have Lived In

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Bruised black brogues, the only uniform needed

for racing friends to our favourite swing,

or tumbling, tripping

into a week of bleeding knees 

and the stench of antiseptic in a ceramic sink.

Squashy puddle-stained trainers,

springy soles that lift your feet (at eight years old)

on the rain-soaked field

pushing down again and again 

until your toes hurt and your lungs burn

crossing that line not quite first but close behind.

A pair of sparkly silver fancy dress heels,

tiny rise kissing the bow of your foot,

telling you you are grown up now

as you tap your soles on the neatly tiled floor,

A single pink toenail peeping out, one ankle strap untied.

Beloved, worn and dirty soled,

now the trainers are the ones to carry you.

Don’t look too closely, they whisper.

You can almost see the tideline stains

and the unlovely scars 

that mar the leather:

reminders, not just of what you have fallen into,

(running down night-cloaked streets, linking arms at 2:33)

but what you have waded through

(the swollen eyes and the I’ve had enough now sighs).

Now you really are old enough to choose heels

but instead you keep the greying laces, 

cling to the scuffed suede,

carry on walking 

and try not to fall.