Magic

Ask a little one about crossing a bridge

(I mean the smallest Billy Goat Gruff),

knowing a Troll’s gonna cut up rough;

or Goldilocks - ask her all about porridge.

Riding Hood’s not afeard of a big bad wolf;

neither three pigs tiling a roof

and Jack pivots on a hero’s bones

when he burgles a Giant’s home.

Isn’t magic a form of belief

that there’s land beyond swirling water,

corporeal trust, any release

of the cladding of homestead, a totter

onto one stone - and hope for surprise:

that the next one, and the next one, will rise?

Words

We watch a little Shakespeare play;
so many words
quilled by hand into a story,
crazy and spoken and heard,

prancing and playing, mascara
running down cheeks
of an audience laughing and actors
speaking out in tongues that speak

and the ladies behind in their chatter
‘..he never! …is that what she said…?’
more important - the words that they natter
than from any old Bard - long dead.

Theme in Red

I stand out - by

spotting green plants with red,

darkening evening sun

into orange and brown and black.

I am called strawberry.

In high summer,

when light starts to cool,

people sit in little circles,

plop me into jugs of ice and Pimms,

talk and sing ‘til evening

when drunken ghosts come out

under rising moon.

I am blobs of tang

and sweetness,

a fibrous pool

seeking entry

into your stream of redness,

blood.

Andrew laughing

Don’t be misled

- that laughter you hear

when he’s chortling out loud;

it’s not strictly true

- more like a starburst

of consciousness

squeezed through a tube

and forcing out through

a man-child, a youth,

mocking

the whole of your folly,

(your silliness too)

and his own little strangenesses,

wobbliness, awkwardness;

questioning outwardly

if you see it too?

Ultimately a funny

attempt only

at reconciliation:

and a heartrending judgment of you.