Bramble switches lay quiet
waiting for unwary feet running haphazardly
blood on my new stockings.
Yesterday, only yesterday I
washed them and now
rust stains and
rolling down my cheeks.
The meadow looked so green,
how was I to know?
Perhaps my feet picked the thorns
not unaware at all,
toes seeking stocking revenge.
© Emily Bragg 2013
Walk along a board thick enough
To support you
And pretend it’s not a tightrope.
Pretend the audience hanging from the ends
Are invisible, are there
To support you.
Don’t mince steps;
Walk freely, strong in the face of falling.
When the rope turns gossamer-thin,
Pretend you feel more beneath the splintering air than spite,
And the words floating up, the jeers and catcalls shaking spider-thin assurance
Pretend they are music and cheers.
Look into the eyes of the perched lion
With his trust-soaked eyes,
Who waits across the divide.