Mondays -the corner table

Around the magic circle cast by Harriet’s spell,
sit the wordcrafters, spinning wondrous tales.
Here Anthony sets the stage with fairy lights.
We are the revellers dancing away the night.

In this changing kaleidoscope, we espy
Stephen hitting a ball on the golf course,
which at all once bursts into rhyme!
We’re green grass, peppered in a confetti of verse.

Now Gill reaches up, to pull down the ceiling
and reveal to us the starry African sky,
all scary night, but we have fairy lights on the path.
We’re the scent of the night, the song and the stars.

The wind blows cinders from Jane’s conflagration,
her perennial existential question threatens
the frivolity of the night, with fear in our hearts
--we whirl in the arms of the shadow flames.

Recalling the brevity of this life, dawn snuggles up
to the night, Maria’s Magyar song wakes the day;
in an enchanted forest with mythic beasts,
we are life celebrants, to the strains of her violin.

©2009 Beatrice V

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