'Maybe' asks me if tigers have
caramel flavoured fur and when i come near the
bath tub she is reclining deeply;
her breath bubbling up through the thin skin
of the holy soap.

'Casualty' asks me if i can tell the clock
a story so that when it sleeps,
and it will- deeply,
it will dream of custard and moth eaten
cloaks that a king or a princess or a
fairy queen might have worn.

'Captured', in all of her glory,
sings high among the mountain
and her jade eyes rest heavy on her
glowing copper cheeks.

'Maybe' wants to know if the ducks- the mallards- fly with grace,
or is the wind, a divine flow of the Spirit's breath, in charge of their
travel. I sing a little tune and cup my hands over my ears, hungry for the brrrrrumph of the
coming train.