The charm for warts

We’re not to say thank you.
She gleamed adventure,
folklore newly foreign in her
rounded vowels.

We planned at the corner,
pulled petals from daisy suns
as the sky reddened. Picked
our warts to look deserving.

The lane was pocked
with puddles,
our apprehension
Lambeg-rhythmed.

The skin on her hands hung
like binds stained in the folds.
The Lambeg beat out
the sound of my thanks, but

she knew anyway, that
graceless woman with the charm:
bury the lint beside a new road,
tell no-one, now.

Last time I was home I passed the lane,
wart still charmed. Stood by the tar-patched
new road where we’d cycled,
waiting for things to happen.

Nikki Robson is from Northern Ireland and now lives in Scotland. She holds an MLitt in Writing Practice and Study from the University of Dundee. Her poems have appeared in journals and anthologies including Ink, Sweat and Tears, Under the Radar, The Dawntreader, Split Screen and Double Bill.