Words spill over my tongue,
Dart from between my teeth
Dropped ‘aitches and Yiddish mix with
South Yorkshire “Baths” and “Bizaaaaaare”.
My shibboleth is not “Broagh” but “Three”.
My Spanish has a French accent,
If only my French did …
My language is words but my language is hands,
Hands twisting and pushing to shift reality.
I know the meaning of words,
I know the tocsin of words.
So tell me, what’s my language?
Mark – your poem is fabulous. Katharine StJ-B
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