Eight years old

Friday, 27 September 2013

I am dressed like a falling leaf
Though I am sturdy as a mushroom
Rust, burnt orange, russet corduroy
The hillocks of my scabbed and warty knees
Raised to my vermillion chin, furrowed echoes
Of the cattle-trodden sliced-up earth
Below my perch of crenelated stone
Hoary and xanthic-splashed
Hard, sharp flat wind
Tang of sea
Sweet stench of decay
My palms sting, rust-streaked, raw
Their ferrous stigmata witness that
Despite my swooping dreams
I am too solid
To fly.


  1. Lovely. So glad you are back. Always enjoy your writing.

    Sandra Bird

  2. Beautiful. It was somewhat of a sad day when my daughter learned she couldn't really fly but I think she was 6, maybe 5. Lots of common sense then and now.

  3. Sublime, so sad to be " too solid to fly"

  4. "Hard, sharp flat wind
    Tang of sea
    Sweet stench of decay"
    I like that. A lot. May I have some more, please?


Please leave a comment if you can be remotely bothered - anything you have to say is valuable and I absolutely love hearing from you all. Elizabeth