Tuesday, June 12, 2007


Tiny one,
you never grew so big
that the world outside
could tear you apart
when you dropped out
onto it like a newly
baked scone.

Inside was so soft -
it protected, encased.
But the outside world
had a way of getting in.
It made you
what it already was;
in its own image.

Days were no longer ours
to play with.
They closed in
the same way
the world closed in
on your stick-thin frame.

By the rope-swing
wood pigeons
what could have been
your name.

1 comment:

bereweber said...

oh clare
i haven't read you in a while
but this morning, i am glad i read you again!
your beautifully painful words
a little life before-start lost?
but then the wood pigeons
and those soulful landscapes you draw...
i am so fond of your writing clare, as the 1st time i read you
i love these little and so effective poems!