crown. Remember that deep
pool, the flaxen ball scattered
by a Princess? Like a tinderbox
that held all the evil in the world,
but gooder. Apple-right. Easy for it
to slip from her powdery hands
into the gravy-black pond, now
lost. That froggy in the cold murk
flipped it up with his webbed fingers
from the sticky mud, the gore,
and swam to greet her blue
strange planets of thanks,
the lashes that cradled the trinket.
He was neither frog nor pipe
but after a kiss a shining boy
called Prince. Now in a carrier bag,
hidden, the first belonging of an
unborn sprite. I carry him careful past
the playground where chalk crackles
like a radio. I love you Mum it says,
October broadcast. I love you.
A golden thought that waits
to surface- for all this open space.
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