Kings

With fingers stained and sticky

From the juice of scrumped berries

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 bright spring sun, I saw a fairy story

gliding above the hullabaloo; behind

roiling cumulonimbus; double daring

a storm and beating crimson wings.

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…

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