Thursday, 25 August 2016


Inspired by "Dragonfire" by Ian Briggs

A child? Yes, I suppose I must have been;
My mother mocked juvenilia's dreams,
Had no truck with fantasticals, with singing trees,
Or gilded glaciers, silver fires of ice
That crackled, danced, eulogized our moons,
("Don't look up," she told me, "stay cocooned")
Even the permafrost that lines her tomb
Glimmers with innermost stars, cleaved with jewels.

That her eyes were padlocked hurts me still,
That her Antarctic heart, beat by epochal beat,
Let in no light -- ah, but it cannot harm me, now
I nestle in dragondreams, embrace the heat,
To the firmament lift up my gaze,
Give my childmind's ember to frozen fire,
Dwell with dragons in caverns, adrift in a maze,
And recall his face, like gloaming, like starry pyre.
(25 August 2016)

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