An ogre has fashioned a large cheese dome
out of his own thoughts – he’s brought it
down on a family of little living people.
Inside there’s fancy furniture,
an airing cupboard and parquet floors.
The little people are clay in his smooth hands.
The mother cooks osso bucco, dreams
of tap dancing on the Pavilion stage.
There’s a teenage girl sitting on her bed
munching through packets of chocolate digestives.
She’ll shed the layers like baggy jumpers
back at boarding school.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Hélène Demetriades
pleased to hear them.