Circus Circus

Backwards writing, on a window.
Red on black or black on red? Circus Circus.
Stained glass, flying clowns, pass the carrot cake.
Unlit candles and scratched table tops.
A yellow postal van delivers more celery, and more rocket.

Red shoes tap across the floor in a black apron.
Jazz floats through the open door before evaporating in the burning grey of the streets.
Lions angrily wave their tails,
too bright green eyes flashing.
A saxophone playing clown hold out a menu.

The buzz of voices and clink of cutlery is all around.
The ringmaster sits on a silver cabinet, smiling as though his trousers aren't falling down.

Fairy lights wreath the pillars outside,
and all around
are the vibrant reds and golds of the fair folk.

The place is full of balancing acts,
magic tricks and
flame throwing displays of the most elaborate kind.

Three courses later, the crows disperse,
slowly fading,
into the deep, blue night.