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