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
cooed
what could have been
your name.
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
cooed
what could have been
your name.
1 comment:
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!
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