The wind rears up and turns
through the dandelion stems and
bursts the clocks apart,
spreading their seeds through the air.
You’re only five years old,
stood in the fog of un-made wishes
as the wind pinches your clothes;
you’re going to make one for yourself.
Spread through the air - your
gossamer fingers, the spindly ends of a taproot;
your inherited blood.
You’ve trampled patches of lion’s teeth in your wellies
to get here and bear yours to the world,
blow the cobwebs away, reinvigorate.
You take your pick from the patch available and
I bet you’d try to haul up the taproot
if you wanted to.
So, what did you wish for?