Monday, 22 August 2016
poetry 2016 / 091
As a child
I peeked under the skirts
trailed my fingers along the petals
of flaking rust
and dug the splinters of loneliness
from the pads of my fingers.
I ran barefoot through the slugs
and breathed the soft fur
of dandelion fairies;
catching thistle seeds as they drifted
through the echoes of schoolyard taunts.
Sundown bats along the banks of the canal
dead pigs and half-submerged bottles
the targets of juvenile missiles
and the soft huff of a horse's breath
on a frosty October morning.