CRITICAL DAYS
They draw closer, they sink down, they darken
the clouds of unforeseen occurrences.
Somewhere in the shadow of a cloud a child sits
drawing as if in defiance an exaggerated sun
in the top right-hand corner.
Bottom left there is a lonely tree
with exaggeratedly large oranges.
Between sun and tree the dog Trusty
chained to a porch staircase
by a reddish brown crayon.
Her sister’s too big now for coloured crayons.
With a ballpoint pen she is writing a letter
to you and me and all the kings
and presidents in the world,
dives into her padded jacket and leaves childhood
half-running, towards
what’s whirling.
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