Queening

Well, it turns out National Poetry Writing Month isn't My Poetry Writing Month - as work flocks into the extra daylight hours, and the nightlight hours. But that's okay. Okayness seeped its way in deeply during the few quiet days of a warm family holiday. Remembering to unwind, play, sprawl on a blooming lawn, not read, not write... sometimes a poem writes itself onto a day.

Seeds are coming up all over the garden, all over my sunny desk - a month of living poetry.

Here's an old old poem to celebrate. 

(It came from a dream about the Queen, our Queen, laughing. I had another night of Queen dreams this week. This time she was about eight years old and I was looking after her, some little queen in me. Look after yours.)

Queeny

The Queen has been laughing

all day. Sweet pea baby-pink

flesh-toned dress

in and out of my brain like the sun. It’s April

tomorrow. What remains

on my platform

is her profile

thrown back – the sparkle

of tiara through silver

hair, lines set,

eyes glowing

in the alcoves

of her face.

Handfuls of pink butterflies in mine.