Hula Hoop

What happens to the tree snagged hula-hoops of the world?

They hang in the oaks of North London,
a strange retrogressive fruit,
ripened and abandoned,
now dismally drying on the branch
after a long winter
and barely pink- tinged
where once they were
pillar-box red.

They are more common than the acorn
or even the blown black binbag.
Modern hula- hoops (plastic not ply)
seem to be better at hanging on trees
than perpetually arcing
around the abdomen.

The hoop on the tree next door has slid to a lower branch
since I was here in January
but its still a long way from earth.
Did  a  bunch of  dark skinned schoolgirls
with  shining eyes and a fondness for apples
throw it up in the summer,
squealing and peeling with laughter
when it disobeyed Newtonian Physics?

That tedious and deeply unpleasant man
hadn’t considered the tall oaks of Totteridge and Whetstone had he?
(probably never travelled to the end of The Northern Line, hence his
blinkered vision)

All you ample brown old-girls,
petalled girls with the grins of Gauguin,
all deflowered and conjoined
and living in The South Sea Islands
or High Barnet now,
are you still gyrating somewhere in the playgrounds
or the gardens
of your memories?

What waists!






















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