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...
Hello everyone who follows David King (My Father). On behalf of the family this post is to let you know that Dad sadly passed away, peacefu...
extract from the poem Koi by John Burnside All afternoon we've wandered from the pool to alpine beds and roses ...
A Birthday in April ~ Wordsworth Prompt from The Imaginary Garden with Real Toads (The first of three posts which will celebrate the l...
What makes us suppose that only the living grieve? Now all but lost in this new and familiar world of tall, leaning-together buildings...
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