Little
by Clare Walker
When I was little,I had as little need for words
as a plankton or a shrimp
My wordless song
echoed through the blue
They still call me little,
my voice torn out --
a bloody eel.
My larynx hardens to coral.
My lips flake into scales.
These people use fillet knives,
Words
with no song.
Someday they'll build a statue
little and sweet.
That's not me.
I am a white domed temple
echoing
with whales' song
My ribcage a cathedral
Its walls kissed to brightness
by a thousand pilgrims.
Clare Walker lives in Yorkshire where she is training to be a librarian. She enjoys blackberries picked just before Michaelmas.
Her poetry can be found in Les Bonnes Fees, Astropoetica and Goblin Fruit.
Back to Table of Contents