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Tuesday, 7 August 2012
Dead to the World
The always-locked gate swinging wide.
And, unattended for a while,
small Eleanor is drawn towards
the path beyond, the song of birds,
the scent of flowers beckoning.
A whole new world to toddle in.
Eleanor loves red hot pokers,
the adults said when they returned -
and made for them, to start the search.
By the beds. Along the borders.
Among the trees and in the pond.
Not one discovered trace of her.
Back to the house to summon help,
and there, beside the open gate,
Eleanor stretched out, her hands and
face mud-covered, scratched; her white dress
faintly smeared with blood; both feet bare,
and she, dead to the world - asleep.
I went to Imaginary Garden with Real Toads to post a poem to their Open Link Monday. Instead, their image of an open gate with a garden beyond suggested the above poem.