She picked a dandelion,

twirling it between her finger and thumb

while dreaming of yellow roses

and country lanes.


Life is what you make of it

so she shut her eyes tightly

imagining a place that did not exist

where she felt calm and whole.


When she reopened them

the sun sat high in the clouds

beaming down at her

and the dandelion flew from her grasp.


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Campfire: A Poem



They sit with their knees

almost touching, almost

but not quite lovers.

Not a word passes between them.


They are mesmerised

by the flames, the kaleidoscope of

yellows and oranges and reds;

the place they call home.


Sizzling pops fill the silence

and the warmth

is like a blanket enveloping

the cold, damp forest.


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