Once upon a time she could fly, if only in her dreams
but loss has rendered her both wingless and limbless
so she can hardly place one foot before the other, let alone fly.
Left stranded in an unreal world, inhabited
by people who could shoot a creature, an idea or a
flying dream to smithereens. There is so much they do not understand:
her passion for the kind, half-heartedness of mountain rain,
a need for its gentleness and the solitude it gives.
Her habit of watching clouds which often seem to match her moods,
or do her moods match theirs, either swift and moving, bright with hope,
or wraithed in greyness, wretchedness and constant changeability?
All she can do is stand on the edge of the golden strand,
gain some healing from the silver crystals of the sea
and wait and watch and wonder at the the waywardness of waves.
Not trying to be brave, just still and quiet;
persistent, unflinching and private,
rather like her tears.