Bright day throws dark rags of shadows down

to lie gauntlet-still among the grasses;

the rainbow fairy collects her trains and helicopters

and drives them to the coast in her roller-skate car

while the tiny feather-headed one sleeps

the afternoon’s elastic hours away.


Rain clouds go on following the wind’s

goat-track almost ready to bleat their water voices down,

stretch the wool-curl of their fleeces

so rainbow has to be brought past the wet

eve’s drop and dried and nuzzled

until the disappointment tears can be soaked away

her slinky armour realigned

and all our ragged cries hushed down.


When shadow overpowers us

and comes onstage with her horses and stars

all silky with sleep, clearing clouds out

with the magic sweep of her long hair

and the stretching crocodile she keeps at her side

these day-lit hours seem too short

to deserve her, still in our beds

snuggled into sleep’s own glove-fingers.






2 thoughts on “Glove

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