Again, I’m ten, tumbling from a wardrobe
into fantasy, a realm of drifting snow,
for our world transcends the limits of globe
or map. Oh, the landscapes that children can show
those who’ve forgotten the Witch and the Lion.
A storm has come. Adults gripe over roads
and closures, fume at winter’s distraction,
although the wind has calmed, no longer goads.
My child finds the magic amongst frosted pines
as we cut paths, squares of Turkish Delight.
Dusk appears like a faun, mystic, benign,
as her sweet laughter paints pink on the white.
Verity, girl of brevity and beauty,
in you I see the spirit of Lucy.