Don’t betray my inner wild child.
Let us feed her gourmet dishes;
Don’t send her to cooking classes,
Never let her change.
Go outside and play with woodlice,
Squash some berries, build a snowman,
Read some books and try your best
To remember what you’ve read.
While the cooks mix bolts and rubbish,
Nuts and bolts, she bolts outside.
Take your books and mobile phone,
Take the chessboard and the doll’s house,
Don’t come in to do the housework,
Don’t come in to die.
The fairy saw her path to perfection as taking care of lemons and melons. The sigil writer cared only for the interchangeable letters in the two words ‘lemon’ and ‘melon’, and these were reflected stylistically in his vivid painting predominantly pink and yellow which he dedicated to the fairy.
It went up on websites and was much admired, and the fairy found her world changing as the once familiar fruits behaved strangely, rolling over and crushing her and showering her with sharp and sweet juice as she followed a trail of pips and seeds to the dilapidated shack in the local forest.
This hut became a sort of Blair Witch place that spawned fearful stories told mainly by the young. The fairy dreaded becoming trapped there, as she hovered under the platform which spanned the area outside the door like a front porch. She crawled out, only to be pinned once again by a succession of round and oblong fruit- related shapes.
Squashed under a boulder with her wings wet through and trailing on the ground like those of a damaged insect, she struggled towards the pink and yellow neon lights up ahead and finally, exhausted, found that her destiny was still perfection.
I stood on the roof singing.
Now I’m a bird, or I have a bird,
Or a little bird told me something,
Or I read about Chelsea Night on the roof,
Or I found a leak in my life, in the roof,
Or someone was killed when he fell off the roof,
Or it came in through a hatch in the roof,
Or the church lost its roof in the war,
Or something stuck to the roof of my mouth,
Or we made a spire by splitting the roof,
Or (memory of reading something grim!)
There were flowers that bloomed in the attic.
Lavender essential oil, heather perfume drops,
Not for old ladies- sweet and magical.
The purple swish on banks and moors of these fragrant flower clumps
Drifts across the air between white-starred fields in breeze.
When distilled to purple bottles, porcelain pot-pourri jars,
Rub in cream of lavender, softening my fingers.
Wild cologne of hillside heather brush onto my cheek.
Sprite that loves the lavender, come inside and watch me draw
Only flowers, purple flowers, all for younger ladies.