Language is her caravan

Frosty, green through gray rising steeply, top of the bank a big top, red with a sign, misty, fantastical on the walk to school. “My sister can’t express herself properly. Imagine if those performers were stuck in their caravans forever. If round the back of the big top the doors were locked. That’s her. She’s a trapeze artist, lion tamer, cramped clean-faced clown drinking tea, practicing tricks, movement through frosted windows. Language is her caravan on bricks, with tiny little windows in.” At the weekend he and his sister stood on the frosty bank beside his metaphor. She read the poster carefully, got them sat down in good time and at the back. The trapeze artist, lion tamer, freshly-made-up clown filled the top with a noise he could go on translating forever. Walking home she opened her chest: “I liked the mime best.”