Telling Tales.

Standing in the library I blow
dust off the hardbacks
I scratch the plastic
binding; it is lonely
in the house of books.

Upon the pages black
ink smears with tears
I stamped a date
out I stamped a date on
every page, because I hate
Tolkein, I hate Shakespeare.

Literature
is a dead end,
a library is
a maze a
book is a turned
corner a page
is a page is a
page.

Paper.

Origami queen,
the way you
fold paper
is exciting
to me.

Swift, fingers
you built
a swan, you
are pretty so
pretty so pretty
oh!

A paper
butterfly;
maybe it's not
the only thing
to fly away.

Delia.

Her hands were pale
pouring sugar into flour
and stirring, sternly
she gauged measurements
with her pale hands.

She tied the apron
around her waist
and teased out
the ribbon with
loving fingers, the
icing from the bag
fell forwards

quite pink.

She wiped frosting
from her lips and
shouted, I'm not
to lick the bowl
am I missy?
I'm not to even
be in the kitchen
whilst she's baking

hot, that tray
needs cooling.

She is sweet
enough, sweeter
than sweet is.

Grizzly.

He had a face full of hair
like a bear that could talk
he wrapped his big paws
around me and talked of honey.

Instead of trapping him
I kissed him, I missed him
when he went away.

Sew What?

He threads
golden thread
through my skin,
making me a
tapestry of
light. He makes
the sun shine, he's
the reason
needles hurt
when they are
pushed into skin
the reason why
there's a beauty
in hand woven things
Tell me my dear-

just how long is
a piece of string?