A Lily For Aislinn
A small and exquisite girl
walks calmly out of the open door
of a speeding cab.
The cab climbs up and over
a hill’s brow, with the rest of us
passengers inside, screaming.
I jump out, before it stops,
to run back over the rise.
A crowd clutches around
her body, motionless.
I can’t walk through them.
People’s faces distort in cars.
Some noise, offset, wakes me.
Brain hits daylight – shrugs it off.
This nightmare’s more important
by far. The shock is a shadow
of a real life shock, dancing as
a girl could dance – unrestricted
by the disrespectful cool
and stiffening of her limbs.
The dreaming is turned
into cartoon, stereotyped
in aftermath. I can’t make the funeral
or lay my lily in her name.
By Susan Taylor
Susan Taylor lives on Dartmoor. She performs her poetry in local pubs, (including her own ‘Trade Winds’ and ‘Maltsters Mash’ monthly acoustic nights), as well as at more formal venues, such as arts centres, festivals etc. She holds an MA from Bath Spa University, and runs poetry workshops in South Devon. Her latest collection is ‘The Suspension of the Moon’ from Oversteps Books.