a writer of sorts
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…