Wishbone

A savaged, hollowed island of waste,

its oily, cooling wreckage sliding

under fingertips sent to rescue

the tender ‘V’ suspended in all


that machinery – in that capsized

hull of a bird. Finding it missing

is like a card trick spoiled, or that time

in Superdrug when my mother asked


did I really want to know the truth

about Christmas, and faking courage

I watched as wonder fell from the sky

like a sack of toys slipped from a sleigh


I now knew couldn’t fly. Then I see

it’s been ferried to the window’s shore,

a flightless splinter of hope, thrown clear,

and I love you for still believing.