The Dragon's Playground

The dragon's mouth opens wide
to let the children in. They stand,
and grin, gripping broken teeth -
no longer razor sharp -
their rubber soles indented by
worn off fangs that must have eaten
a gazillion of them by now,
but spat them out.
None are missing after all.

Perhaps it is the taste?
It seems a monstrous waste.

With teeth so white, shiny
golden hair and skin that glows
they'd be a delicacy -
each fleshy morsel, plump pink limbs,
so young and fresh and ripe.

You'd think that giant creature -
newly painted scaly aqua bright,
underbelly royal blue, floating
on a sea of softening bark -
would snap it's jaws shut tight
and steal them off
into a shadowy night, delighting in
treasured gulps of sweetness
and light, with a bundle of
goodness in every bite?

One day it MIGHT.

The Trip

She left her diary on the bus -
it hung like a clouded aura
around my seat.

Bubbled outbursts -
schedules, episodes, characters -
presented themselves
in abstract, forward motion,

a fleeting cartoon strip evolving
into slow motion epic drama,
as we travelled street
by captioned street.

She departed with the buzz
of a pressed button,
a jolt
and a hurried wave.

I remained seated -
drenched in the downpour
of her secreted thoughts.

Wake Up Call

The leaves from the vine that covers
our shed in Summer have fallen, leaving
a layer of giant crunchy Cornflakes
the colour of fire coating the surface
of our soggy back lawn.

Tears drip through the filter of the swing seat
and slide, percolating in the sun, yearning
for the playful to return.

Gutters, chock full of decomposing
litter, leak expresso stains down the walls
of the workshop, through interlaced woody
stems as grey and dry as Weetbix.

Steam rises from my cup, where I
sit on the threshold, hearing the
house groan under the shifting weight
of morning, which beckons me inside
to make breakfast.

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