Saturday, 21 July 2018



she is only twelve, and yet she is already
a seed bursting in a summer pod. 
sometimes she may be as bitter as laburnum; 
but taste it you will. 
she is fired in the yellow of tomorrow’s dawn;
she has her chin upon the clouds;
she is going there, stop her if you dare!
cage the spirit and the bats will beat the bars; 
can you claw the air back into a cage? no! 
so let her breathe, say goodbye then she might tarry; 
spinning at the other end of the skipping rope, 
head in the stars that orbit her sun. then whoosh! 
so be gone my lovely, wave back now and then?

No comments:

Post a comment