Tuesday 25 October 2016

Waterstones frog with a golden
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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