Kings

An odd poem that came out of nowhere. It’s about a time when I was eight and was convinced I’d seen a dragon…

With fingers stained  
and sticky from the juice  
of scrumped blackberries,  

I peel enamel scales  
from the top of the weathered  
climbing frame. From its ramparts,  

my pink and mauve fist  
punched at the sky in triumph, 
for today and for the first time  

I was King and screeched  
my victory to the rascals below.  
Head back and roaring, sight  

speckled by low- bright sun,  
flaming red, I saw a fairy story  
gliding above the hullabaloo;  

behind roiling cumulonimbus; 
double daring a storm and beating 
crimson wings. This chimera  

soon fragmented, into an autumn  
murmuration, feathers orbiting 
breeze-bound silk ribbons,  

bending like staves around  
a jazz chord before hiding 
In an orchestra of trees.