The wind works and wallops and I am
waiting. In my place, in my tower,
What shape will you take, this time?
Will you be a knight
with a straight back and a straight lance
and eyes fresh from the temple,
flush with your crusade?
Or will you be like Shrek,
green, blotched, uncertain bits sticking out,
with layers fresh from the swamp
hiding your heroic centre?
The wind pauses. Sunshine…sunlight. Do I
hear something? A well-addressed horse?
A ramshackle donkey? Which do I want?
I don’t know. Whichever mask you have chosen,
I will be frightened
going into the world, going dancing
looking like that, with critics and sycophants
hanging around, earning their money
but losing you in the leaping trees,
but losing me in the reel of the wind.
(First published in Pixel Papers)