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.
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Will Vigar 
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