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Claire Everett, England

Crushed Silk

All day the susurration of words. Not enough time to pay them heed. Nothing to do but wait for the soft slip of sleep when I can dance cheek to cheek with that other self; she who knows the steps so much better than me.

1001… 1002… Falling. Falling. This ache between my shoulders and a weight that becomes an itch that I can't scratch. Pop! Suddenly, a lightness of being.

high above the poppy field…
breath of a dream

Sun-capped waves of corn. I'm pulled into the swell, carried away. Clouds become dandelion seeds, drifting. The cord in my left hand dissolves. My right hand clutches at a thread. I look up to see a parasol of mist. Who blows the dandelion clock? Me, or the breeze?...

pen to paper…
the colours of
a butterfly's dream


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