Delphi
Sabine O’Mahoney
I know a person called Delphi, and I think she’s a pretty girl.
She has sandy locks along with a pair of striking hazel eyes.
She skips a step in her ambling and always does a twirl.
I have a friend called Delphi, and I think she has a pretty name.
She was named after Delphiniums – elegant flowers with hues of indigo or azure that matched the colours on her long, flowing dress.
I watch as she skips a step in her ambling and twirls, her skirt dancing around her, and now my clothes look lame.
I have a best friend called Delphi, and I know she’s a pretty girl.
The amber glow of the sunset reflects in her eyes and dapples onto her sandy locks when we walk along the seaside shore.
I step into the imprints left behind on the sand from her feet before they wash away, laughing as she skips a step in her ambling and does a twirl.
I have a classmate called Delphi, and the boys at my school call her a pretty girl.
She stopped wearing her long, flowing dress and opted to wear short skirts.
I watch as she walks with a boy, but she didn’t skip her step in her ambling and do a twirl.
I thought I had a friend called Delphi, and now everyone thinks she’s a pretty girl.
The burning glare from the blinding sun pierces into her heartless eyes and incinerates her dirty blonde hair when she strides with the other pretty girls along the seaside shore.
Her friends let the imprints left behind on the sand from her feet be engulfed by the sickly sea, sniggering with her, and she didn’t skip her step in her ambling and do a twirl.
I knew a person called Delphi, and I thought she was a pretty girl.
But looks can be deceiving, and her porcelain face easily shadowed her stone heart.
She stopped skipping her step in her ambling and doing a twirl,
I wish she kept skipping her step in her ambling and doing a twirl,
I miss when she skipped her step in her ambling and did a twirl.