Portrait of The Young Poet in Front of the Swing set, Age 6, Northampton

 

 

I hold you

between my fingertips, careful

not to sweat

onto your smile

wider than the rings

Saturn proposed to the sky with.

 

You do not

blink back at me,

your inky eyes crafted

like the ocean, they

refuse to ripple

when I drop pennies

in exchange for wishes.

 

Your hair parted

like Moses’ water,

rip curls singing

of pebbled beaches, of

comb teeth long lost,

in the matted debris

of golden locks.

 

Crimson uniform bundled

over youthful bones,

enveloped across rosy skin,

you wear it

like a laurel,

crowning your feathered hair.

 

You bolt forward,

fuelled by the

power of Zeus

beneath your sandaled feet,

to eat chicken pie, made by

ma. Food of the Gods.

little-me

Photo that Portrait of the Young Poet in Front of the Swing set, Age 6, Northampton is based upon

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