She lives on the wall of my lounge

In the wilds of Wales

Where I’ve lovingly tried to nifidicate

A place

For her carved ceramic being.

But it's petty and unremarkable--

And truly not enough.

 

Unworthy of the tales--

That are hers alone to tell.

 

The consanguineous nature of her heritage

Weighing down heavily--

And unliberated---

In yellow and blue.

 

Only she knows the deleterious nature

Of the levy.

 

As assiduously as I can, I whisper to her in hushed tones—

‘Where are they?’

But she never answers.

And I cannot bear to know.