As I jump on board the underground I am bathed by a sound
cloud of sprout-green chortles, a schoolgirl laughter fills the
tube from Oxford Circus to Regents Park.

hey are a Golden age of Girl-chorus.

Bubble streams of unearthed fairy spittle rising from the juju
bean filled belly up through the throat of youth, their heads
thrown back and weighted by pony-tails and headbands.

Unencumbered by ‘do I look okay today’

Out of open mouths, through a mixture of adult and baby
teeth, a rising tide of laughter.

Whatever are they giggling about?

A veil both goofy and awkward sheaths the mighty girl-swords
I sense emerging.

Oh, my weary, blurry-eyed crone, she is peering over and
down, seeking to glean the sound, drink it in, recollect the
heartiness of abandon.

Suddenly I feel vampiric and the whole yarn of evil witches
stealing young girls from the forest pushes me aside.

I look around at the other passengers.

Teenaged boys annoyed but touched by the recent history of
their own boy-marvel.

The dry-old men rivers are exhausted yet even they sense a
magic of forest floor nymphs, brownies- invisible sparks that
break through the crust of daily.

Hormonal teen-shoots are a few years away yet I notice the
spry-eyed glances seeking the wise, looking for the old dwarf-
adult whose mask may drop long enough to share a tale of
initiation.

Masquerades of boredom or iPhone pandemonium are not yet
as tempting as the mischievous commotion on a train through
London.

They are newly born gossip wingers of old and scandalous
sharings, a girl-tribe passing on down our stories.

Watch as they emerge, rhubarb-honey hair splashing over
shoulder or braided inky blue frizz shine depending on the
ancestral root.

All of their cheeks aflame with cell division and untold secrets.