Almost Xanadu
Winged mannequins dot the forest trail,
forest fairies in the dale -
so lifelike in their chalkware skin,
unexpected in the vale.
Stumbling under their glossy gaze,
lost inside a leafy maze -
I back up slowly, turn and run,
clawing through the morning haze.
"Join us", they plead now - reaching, falling,
all of them so sweetly calling
"You need some flowers in your hair",
as I am gasping, crawling.
"You could be one of us", they sigh,
"abandoned here we know not why,
creating almost Xanadu -
we never have to live or die."
At wood's green edge I glimpse the street
and glance back, oddly incomplete:
I see just pallid mannequins
posed stiffly in the summer heat.
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