the brilliants of home

Her name was Marigold, but her eyes were violet

and when she closed them there was peace.

She moved with the air, just another breeze.

She danced. She drummed on a beam.

Light was her grounding, her source of truth

the only darkness was under the water.

Everywhere else her world was brilliants

everything she held, the world brought her.

Her seat was a stone in the sun, smooth and sound.

It’s heat warmed her through, held her tight.

A magnetic pole unmoving in the ground,

she’d watch her toes in the sun and the light.

Eyes lifting and casting, soft round violets,

echoing like the air shimmering around her.

Catching her focus, life swimming through trees

hollowed trunks making tunnels, she found her

mind wondering what was on the other side –

wise women or a library of grace?

Her violet eyes, and her freckles, glowed at the thought.

She was safe and warm in her brilliant and beautiful place.

So when the sounds break through and sharpen her eyes

she tries to retreat, she tries pushing them shut.

As though the pressure will take her back to the place

Where life, joy and brilliance effervesce in her heart.

See she knew what it meant to be burned, afraid

but never before of the one that she loved.

So she closed her eyes, held her breath and waited for

the sounds, the fury, to stop and allow her to go fly above

to the world where the sky is cornflower, and she is Marigold

and her violet eyes shine like diamonds in the dark.

Real, unshakeable, brave and not sorry –

in her world where there is freedom to love.