Wool Gathering
Jo Gerrard
The gates before me are old,
Time has weathered their wood
Until it is the dead grey of
A winters sky, or the dreamlands.
I remember innocence,
Dancing barefoot in the grass,
Plucking dandelions in the yard,
Blowing the white fairies off their heads.
I cannot hold on,
And only occasionally nourish that child,
Climbing from my car
To pinch snapdragons in a hotel flowerbed.
|