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?please,