During lockdown I have fantasies about getting a puppy
or kitten, guinea pig, rabbit, mouse…it appears I have regressed
to four again, longing for something furry to hold.
My granddaughter wears a full length, purple, princess dress,
perhaps as a brilliant piece of subconscious, escapist theatre.
It is her Rapunzel dress she tells me. But I am Rapunzel,
shut in my town house, ‘sheltered’ for the foreseeable future.
She laughs, thinks I am joking. Ha ha.
Granny in a long, purple, rustling dress and crown.
Where is your wand then?
My wand is research. I eat parsley, which I love, find out that
the real Rapunzel was a third century saint called Barbara,
beheaded by her father. I see the similarities. She has her food
delivered in a basket on a rope and my house is tall with
plus my Dad did try to behead me (intellectually). Another
has Rapunzel named after parsley, which she feeds to her
My hair is growing long. I must break out.
Note: Petrosinella is the old Italian word for parsley
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Rose Cook would be pleased to hear them.