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Pockets of faery dust – once known as sand
Collected from beneath her own feet
Filled to the wrist with a gull’s feather just fallen
This girl, well, just a woman
Xanthic in her petals, the most
Eye-catching magnolia and yes, she if formed of steel
Maybe, I said, you are something sublime
Chlorophyll runs thicker than blood
Subtle and strong – you are Queen of the Undertow
Crouch to sand and rise up Lady Citron
Us magis travel in packs, you know
Where she streams mystic verses and swallows men
Like clouds of vacancy
But as dandelion, packs do disperse
And as burdock, we adhere and fasten
By something we fluently call esprit
Ame soeur, je dis – Toujours
And I say this gypsy – lighter than feather and
Quicker than thought
Conceives dragnets in her mind, penetrating the depths
Where other porpoises tend to barely skim the surface
She is a novice, but that faery dust will keep her well
And her own feet, could have once been a siren’s fluke
Enthralling thought to ponder
For the seaman who will listen in time
And show a yen for petals, feathers and sand
But understand, Sailor, that ‘tis you and I who need be
grateful
That she favored to perfume our lives with her nature
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