Dream: the Twelve Dancing Princesses
There are several options.
One: the woods
are dark. The mist rolls round the trunks of trees.
You can’t see any stars. Through leaves, the sky
is black in tiny patches. You can’t see
the babies hidden in their tiny baskets.
Two: the lake is black and deep,
cold as obsidian, with ripples like breaks. Night
has fallen but the murky light’s unreal,
and the lake might be a swimming pool
for all the nature there. You are surrounded
by high blank walls. Everywhere babies wail.
No; they don’t make a sound. They are suspended
on the water like lily pads. You must save them.
A girl with plaits rows by in a rickety boat,
blue, with oars like matchsticks. Out to sea.
It’s hard to be everywhere at once.
from Me and the Dead (Salt Publishing, 2008).
Read Katy’s blog, Baroque in Hackney.