It’s such a fine day,
she thinks,
as she saunters down
the path to her gate —
a late morning after
her fine night
painting the town
red and other colours.
The adventure of
escape
no longer leads
through rabbit holes
or mirrors. Now she needs
more control, can’t leave
the kids
for unpredictable lengths
of time.
But if anyone ever had
cause
to become an artist —
all
the bizarre and
beautiful
things she’s seen….
So she slips out at
night.
While husband and
children snore,
she’s away with her
spray cans.
Her signature, Lice,
is so obvious if you
know.
But no-one knows.
The slight figure,
like others,
is hooded in the dark.
She is still
slim and small enough
to pass
for a teen, a boy.
They never talk
if they even meet.
It’s a solitary thing.
She’s fond of solitude
now,
having all those
offspring and him
in the busy days. She
likes her space,
in those silent hours
when even
drunks and the
homeless are asleep.
She needs no potion these days
to be tall as a tower,
tiny as a flower;
no smiling
demonstrations
of a disappearing act.
She has her own
magic, dispelling
walls.
At 'imaginary garden with real toads' last Friday, Fireblossom asked people to write mash-ups, putting someone famous in a new and different situation. I only just discovered this prompt, a few days late, and it caught my imagination.
