The Child

Damn robin on the tea-towel; far away you –
shrouded in snow.  Still my fingers ache from coldness.
Not good enough, eh?  I’ll show you.  I’ll raise
up those robins, they’ll dance on my shoulders.  I’ll spin
like a Sufi wing, covered in robins, with all my A grades.
I’ll ace my way through life and then maybe,
maybe, you just might lift up your nose.

For if only I could describe it –
this feeling of scarlet-galaxy-night every time I open
up gold stardust and paint with my fingers.
Look, please – this eternal spell – woven by digits
of grass-blades and chalk squiggles.
How can I convey it, so that you might drink it?

Raven Castell

If you have any comments on this poem, Raven Castell would be pleased to hear from you.