the thinner spectre of the two,
serene and pale and half in shadow,
from the creases of the curtain,
floats a plaintive lullaby
into the swollen greenwich evening.
her song for sleepless children.
‘a painted fort for poorly cowboys,
a teepee for the squaw and chieftain.
a mountain range of wooden blocks
to ride, with reins between their teeth
and hooves that echo in the canyon.’
but, in the ether strewn with crayoned
cut-out stars and pockmarked moon
(before the landing) –
a blinking eye was at the keyhole.
in anticipation, i suppose.
I like this, so evocative of the time before.
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Thank you, Liz.
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Reblogged this on From 1 Blogger 2 Another.
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This is very kind of you, Moorezart. Thank you.
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Such a beautifully written piece.
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Thank you, Lucy
xo
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