Her Childhood

She sing songs her parents sang

watching the seagulls plague

a tractor and plough sowing

seeds for a future crop.

Witches’ clothing are strung

across the spindliest

black branches of a fig tree,

as she approach the house

of her childhood, the field

where innocence could play.

Memories they fly through

her thoughts like a thrush

flying through corridors,

its wings not touching the walls.

And from this thought leads:

to an emancipation which,

bordered by modesty,

can be wrapped into a blanket

and put beneath a bench,

in keeping for a latter day.

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