The Supernova in the Narrow Room: (Inspired By Enid Blyton's Wishing Chair Series)
The wicker groans, a rhythmic song,
To where the ancient days belong.
We crest the ridge of evening mist,
Where earth and amber light have kissed.
Below, the garden shrinks to naught—
A tiny stitch in fabric wrought—
As fields of green and pleasant hue
Dissolve into a deeper blue.
The horizon shimmers, gold and wide,
Where giant, silent shadows glide,
And mountains made of starlight rise
To meet the bloom of alien skies.
No maps can hold this wilder shore,
Where time is but a closing door,
And every breath is sharp and sweet,
With silver dust beneath my feet.
There, the Citadel of Glass stands tall,
Where echoes of the future fall,
And Rivers of Unspoken Thought
Carry gems the mind has wrought.
I gather up a shard of sun,
A seed from where the stars begun,
And tuck them in my pocket deep,
While all the sleepy villas sleep.
The descent is swift, a sudden chill,
As starlight bends to meet the hill.
The wicker settles, soft as rain,
Beside the garden gate again.
The kitchen clock resumes its beat,
The grass is cool beneath my feet,
But though the tea is poured and plain,
I am not the same child who felt the grain.
The morning bell is sharp and cold,
A brassy chime for young and old.
I sit within the schoolroom’s glare,
With chalk-dust hanging in the air,
And solve the sums upon the slate,
While guarding secrets, vast and great.
The teacher speaks of verbs and nouns,
Of parish maps and market towns,
But in my pocket, warm and strange,
The seed begins its cosmic range.
The parlor walls are thin as paper,
The evening lamp a dying taper;
I stand within the hallway’s gloom,
A supernova in a narrow room.
The garden gate is locked and fast,
But the boundary of the soul is passed—
I am the hearth, I am the height,
The breathing core of the infinite night.
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