I had met them in a side street near where the fountain played and the tourists gathered. They were trying to be different but only ended up a pastiche of themselves. They started to tell me the tale of the circus and of the man who despite no training had embelished their skin with the most marvelous of tattoos. It seemed a plausible if exotic story



Well her mother knew a sailor
Her father conjured hope
Her sister left on friday
Some said she had eloped

With a man from Clancys circus
Whose family had performed
Long before they’d left the cornfields
Long before ideas were born

To ride high upon an elephant
And swim with sharks at play
And reasoning with questions
Before things got in the way

She showed her body to the artist
Whose ink was made to stay
To show that she was valid
Not afraid what people say

And the words her skin defended
Spoke not from heart or head
They were something from a paper
A quote somebody said

It was not a realisation
Just something from the past
“God bless dreamers and artists
God bless the fools and tarts”

And if I ever reach conclusions
From searching out my heart
I’ll think of the girl from the circus
And the words tattooed on her arse