By Graeme Turner

Painting of Valhalla with fiery sword.

at the enforced coziness
of the senior cites,
it is a Valhalla of warmth
against the wolf of wind.
They are sitting comfortably
awaiting the unraveling.

A bright enchantment has swathed the room
as Gwen is transformed from silvery hair
to the blondness of a child.
Enid for a flickering moment
flashes eyes of a forget-me-not blue memory
and Annie coos \
with a thickening golden syrup of words
of bikkies, doggies presents wrapped

Everywhere there is a guy Fawkes fizzing
of magic as Lorna’s fingers
curl into roses,
Andrew’s skin glistens with slime
as he kisses dance memories
leaps into full prince frogginess.
Eileen giggles
feathers blossoming her arms
And Fred’s jokes deepen to a growl
as he looms the full fluffy brown of bearness.
Harry is bristling red
His features, fox sharpened to sly
As he licks lips for chooks.
Perhaps He never was that nice.
But he mightn’t be here next week.

Still, by the heater
Sandra’s whiskers gleam
As she begins to purr.

Edith chirps over the cliffs of Dover
as she stretches wings
And perches on a sill
Robed in childhood sun.

I continue to tell
There contentment in the room
as I wait for the tale
to end so happily
with once upon a time.


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