And when the little winding tail
Goes burrowed in the sand
comes at me like the Cheshire cat who still,
“How doth the little crocodile” or “twinkle twinkle little bat”
envelope and whisper make-believe
“upon a dream”, that can’t.
And Briar Rose,
goes hidden among
the thorns and song that ride
Barefoot upon the open road, the Lake
and forest pine.
Sing open, lyrical questions
That her life betide.
The quest of being raised and found,
beside her lover’s guide.
But even more than future,
is what she came to tend.
Before she sees what she can see
she must propel, to rend
those who go before her, those she leave behind
her mother tongue, her language love,
Her life given to kin.
How soft these fantasies,
These fairytales, a hymn.
Like Lewis’ MacDonald,
And Tolkien’s, the Grimm.
They never seem to escape my blood,
they burrow, they clench
Oh Alice, my dear sister, and Briar Rose, my friend.