Thursday, 25 June 2009

Gazy McGonagall


I held the tiny ship with care,
As she grew accustomed to the air.
I knew not her, nor she me;
Her eyes shut tight – as well they might be.
Gripping fingers but no teeth,
Cheeks of fine, rare roast beef.
She’ll do for a journey crossing many borders,
Without a map and missing orders.
The voyage begins.

WG 25th June, 2009

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