Written 12 September 2026 entered in The Power Of Fiction Poetry Contest sponsored by Natasha L Scragg
“Sometimes fiction does not let us escape our lives; it gives us the courage to return to them with our wings still warm.”
___Poet.
At the end of a very long day, I settled into my comfy chair. The soothing patter on the tin roof and the old gum tree outside surrounded me in a soft embrace. I opened my book— The Time of the Dragon Lady. The first pages breathed open— mist lifting from the Vale of Time. Below its black hills, a village waited: chimneys cold, bowls scraped clean, children listening for wings beyond the evening bells. I followed the path between the lines until the room fell away. Then, over the black hills, a dragon laboured through the dark, wings frayed by weather, the last of his fire a thread of smoke along his tongue. He had hunted beyond the frostline for the hungry ones waiting below. I read more slowly then— knowing the long flight that empties its bearer before the door is reached. When he came home, no one asked for one more flame. They brought berry-wine, hot bread wrapped in linen, armfuls of dry wood for a fire he did not have to make. In the warm hall, firelight found the torn edges of his wings. Behind my ribs, something gave way. I did not turn the page. I held the open book against my chest and wept for the dragon— and for the part of me that had forgotten how it felt to be welcomed home before being asked to give again.
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