The queen on number twenty one Dragon Hill
is neither sorceress, nor saint,
but open arteries of sanguine geraniums
adorn her third floor balcony
and her front door is painted charcoal black,
with a brass-head goat-head knocker.
The walls are pregnant, green with ivy
and the window-eyes are empty sockets.
She always dresses in a bottle green smock,
and a pair of knee-high red Doc Martens.
Her hair; Rapunzel length; raven black, bedecked
with ornamental flames and silver filigree.
Mostly she is solemn, silent, but sometimes late
at night you might hear her playing
wild mazurkas on her baby grand piano.
If the queen of number twenty one, Dragon Hill
invites you in, beware of snakes and spiders,
but remember that she always offer guests
absinthe and tea before she let them fall
in comatose onto her king-size bed.
The queen has many lovers but always eats
her breakfast in a nightgown all alone.
Today Sarah hosts dVerse poetics and gives us a choice of street names from her local area, and a few from London. My choice was to imagine a story from Dragon Hill.
Also linked to Tuesday Platform at toads.
May 29, 2018