Alice, in the weary, lovely wonderland

And when the little winding tail

Goes burrowed in the sand

comes at me like the Cheshire cat who still,

as Alice,

command,

“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.

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