A spider's chandelier with Gatsbyesque enticement

indulges the mumbling aphid's lament,

red berries decorate the fringe of a melodic carousel of swallows

whilst two more riders swirl their eyes and caw.

This was just the mornings...

 

On evenings we saw raves-

black v's in tye-dye skies,

a ginger stoat did the caterpillar,

frozen ozone refracts a mobile of rainbows.

Oh we don't need you to believe us,

we walked it, we were there.

 

Giants were we, tromping the precipice

of the top tier of this green cake

hand in hand, condescending

the fields and canal; a playmat for a choo-choo, horsies

a plush staffie pulling Barbie in pink and black lycra;

homemaker nee career girl:

accessories included.

These things weren't noted with a Wordsworthian flute

but the grudge trudging dirge on the seethed frame

 of a tired girl with hormone collider not yet in full throttle,

apron strings a taut catapult to liberty held fast

by a staunch matriarch soldered to the idea

this would last forever.

 

We had the love of a tree in common-

thick trunk, mostly dead,

sharp contours on a gnarly head.

 

This old age Elderflower we adored;

Anthony Fibonacci, husky emerald skirted independent witch,

at dusk in his field he provides a show of pipestrel marionettes

for the poo pooing of the donkey.

 

Come morning his claws pull the yellow sun separate

from night's shell, smudging the bone white moon into blue.

 

In the end he always knew

I'd have no choice,

this coarse obstacle,

but to release my grip.

I'd grope the intangible air when at last

she returned to where I found her:

in the world's finest part-

in the pattern of a heart.