The Stolen Child Garden
Off the curve of broken flagstone paths,
among tall green things, wet shadows,
where frogs spawn and dragon flies are fierce,
you roamed thorn bush avenues and turned white
curtained by ferns – friend of wild pansies.
You had spring wrapped around your finger,
ears deafened with adventure –
sloppy moss pies, tadpole submarines,
twig hair curlers, honey suckle perfumeries.
Always at such great heights,
you piggy-backed on brittle wood skeletons,
child-Taranis, electrifying the gloomy mist –
your belly full of weeds, hunger no more.
Never come home.