Poems

Two girls, aged nine and ten

It was the blue in all those blacks and browns -
the sudden smoothness in the cross-hatched twigs
as if the hedge had all along had four blue eyes:
ingots of sky, sent down for us alone - that held us.
This was it, then: proof of fairies, heaven,
aliens and Father Christmas
all in one.

Two or three we'd just look at, but four or five
and all the ingenuity, the nerve and brilliance
of an intrigue hatched behind our backs
almost, would make us touch that downy cup
to feel its pewter roundness and then take
one keepsake, just one,
from the dream.

And when in other places we found more
and no one stopped us when we asked for needles,
cotton wool and boxes, or we showed them off
to visitors who praised our neatness and enthused
about the miracle of life, it was a miracle
nobody thought
it was a crime.

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