Most of them were now bones, picked white by crows,
only a lock or two of hair would tell.
No motion at all could convince the trapeze, swinging ever higher,
that it was nearing the zenith of its arc.
But the hunter with silver fur and hungry eyes lay ready,
the full moon its guide.
He would have bluebells waiting by the thousand,
painted clay cups that collected his luminescent tears,
frozen and pressed into precious stone –
hoping to replace the ammonite clasped in her hand.
He could grant wishes for her, bend himself to her will,
but always in a way that would cause havoc.
Outshining the fire,
a delicate flower began to bloom.
Treeshallow Musings 