The moon petals the sea. Rose petals the sea. Stone sea. Stone petals. Rose petals of stone. Stone rising before me. Sea moves. How moves...
It all depends, you see, how you go about it. And that I cannot tell you, for that will be dictated by you and by you knowing your friends...
extract from the poem Koi by John Burnside All afternoon we've wandered from the pool to alpine beds and roses ...
Mum! They're changing me treatment, me hot flushes have gone! With side-effects missing, it all feels quite wrong. Mum! There...
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Tuesday, 10 April 2012
Mirabella, White Witch in Embryo
The feeling never left her
not throughout her childhood
that she'd have to walk on eggshells all her life.
Her mother's stress was at the back of it.
One wrong word or one false move
and mum was off again.
that at the moment she became
a newly-hatched probationer,
she would resolve
to ride on the damned eggshells for a change.
Arranging eggshell transport was a cinch:
Page 5, The Witches' Handbook -
already covered in her training -
but controlling levitating eggshells... now
that was very different. We're speaking here
of Volume II, Spells Intermediate.
Almost at once
the landscape had become
a mass of broken eggshells.
by the air's low hum -
Earth's magnetism in the service of
a trainee witch -
Darkness, her dog,
quick to sense his mistress
less than fully in control,
let his pain be known,
and howled incessantly.
Marabella, to her lasting credit,
refused to take the short cut, and
remained a white witch to the end.
Not Brilliant White, perhaps,
no dazzling gloss to blast your eyes,
more your eggshell finish.
Image prompt by Tess Kincaid at Magpie Tales