Again with my brush and watercolour
‘Tis because Ill-favoured is tight control
And perchance only then am I to soar
For my once golden age again to hold.
Returning to five, six, seven of age
When all self-consciousness is forboded
O, yes, this is the something special stage-
Realism’s failed grip is duly noted.
A child’s advice to me freely given
All that’s before me but a pared down sight
Oh that all of my life were so sieven’d
For length of my life what then of great height?
For water is loose, as clay is to fire
Trust that letting go is ever higher.
Christyl Burnett Copyright 2018