Poetry

Remnants

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.

Poetry

A wish

A wish is all I need

said the star to the girl.

A wish in your heart to fill

the expanding void. Stitch

it shut so that you, yes:

you in the sheet who

becomes the sheet when legs

appear around you,

folding you up into a neat

package presented with glitter

and string. You can’t disappear,

fade out from their faces.

You can remain, bold,

outlined and real.

A wish is all I have

said the girl to the star.

A wish in my heart, small

but waiting to expand.