The stitching in the school ties
wrapped like cords around our necks,
the collar and chain used to pull
us in to linoleum corridors
and quell – –

Pin prick beads of blood
congealing on forearms
and tangling in fine hair
under dipped dusky light.

The sleepless eyes every
morning, grief struck
and stained, staring,
shot red like fine wires,

the poetry I used to write,
my pen dancing across the page
in the unsung night,
but now – –

red is the lady bird that crept over
blades of grass then sat on my arm,
creeping over pink scars
and spreading its wings
for take off.

The thrust breast of a robin
fluttering like a moth in the trees
reminding me of my Grandmother
and her breadcrumbs
scattered wide like ash.

The dragon on the Welsh flag
that guards the doorway of our home.