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?