Letters To The Fairies

To the fairies who live in the bushes along the fence by the living room.

Dear Fairies

Last week you did not answer my letter until two nights later !  So I will just tell you again that your letterbox is behind the chair in the corner of the living room near the ranch slider. I made it out of lego and you can see it easily.
i have started school now and I like writing letters. Claire wants to write letters too, but she is not at school yet. Mummy writes her letters for her. I copy my letters after Mummy writes what I want to say.
Today after school I found some fairies but Mummy says they are clematis seeds blowing in the wind. I still  think they look like fairies. I have put one in your letterbox. Please would you turn it into a real fairy ?  And make it not afraid of me ?
I know which is your special trees. Our black and white cat fell out of it when he was a kitten. He is much better at climbing now.
Please answer my letter soon.

Love from
Chloe
________________________________________________________

Dear Fairies

Happy birthday.

Love from
Claire.

I an Chloe’s sister.

Letters To The Fairies

Railway Stations

Pudding Lane, Bow Church, All Saints,
Poplar. The overhead railway runs
high above long lanes of commuter traffic
flashing trails of red tail lights,
white headlights, in the dark morning.
Ancient names overarching modern machines.

Heron Quays, West India Quay, Canary Wharf.
We glide from small station shelters
into a vast overhead dome
to change trains amongst milling throngs
rushing to work in glass cased offices.

West India Dock, Coldharbour, Mudchute
appear as daylight grows.
Another day, off to work again
in futuristic transport
yet a little out of this world
as I pass names established
so long ago, recurring still
in history books.
and present day news.

Another of my early posts when I was still building up views and likes.
Originally posted 6 December 2015.

Railway Stations

Sunday Morning

On Sunday morning the first
awareness of the day drifts
through the sleeper’s mind as
she turns on her side. Very
faint light shows through the
heavy curtains as she opens
her eyes slightly – too much –
she closes them again.
Luxuriating in the comfortable
warmth she sinks down into
restful blissful unconsciousness.
Blessed silence continues.

Bare feet pound into the room
in three year old consternation.
Shocked tones announce
“The moon has gone away !
– The stars have gone away !
– The sun is shining ! And
no one is getting up !”

The sleeper is jolted awake.
A vast heap beside her groans,
stirs, a gravelly voice rumbles
that all is fine, the three year
old should go back to bed.

Little bare feet trail slowly away.
She hasn’t woken her sister, that
is hard to do. Which leaves her
looking at picture books
with Alfred Bear in bed.

Sunday Morning