The Quiet Girl (Poetry)
10th November 2013
The quiet girl in the purple gingham dress
has a poem growing deep in her pocket
warm as a brooded egg against her thigh
she puts a finger in and strokes it
by and by.
She dreams it is a bird — exotic — rare
and she can hear it singing through the shell
old songs — remembered from so long ago
entranced she listens — stares up
at the speckled sky.
She learns the tune by heart — it fills her mind
with space between the notes expanding time
to fit the echoes bouncing cloud to cloud
fading soft they ache
for some reply.
She feels the feathered itch beneath her dress
her love is hatched — impatient to be free
and test its wings. She opens a white page
and lets her wild imagination
fly.
has a poem growing deep in her pocket
warm as a brooded egg against her thigh
she puts a finger in and strokes it
by and by.
She dreams it is a bird — exotic — rare
and she can hear it singing through the shell
old songs — remembered from so long ago
entranced she listens — stares up
at the speckled sky.
She learns the tune by heart — it fills her mind
with space between the notes expanding time
to fit the echoes bouncing cloud to cloud
fading soft they ache
for some reply.
She feels the feathered itch beneath her dress
her love is hatched — impatient to be free
and test its wings. She opens a white page
and lets her wild imagination
fly.