mist,
clinging to her eyes,
streaming from her fingers,
flowing from her lips.
the morning dew fogs up the sky.
her wings aren't white
or grey
or silver
or gold
or black:
they are colourless
textureless
substanceless.
her clothing is frail
and stronger than hope -
spun from spider-web dreams,
their sticky longing caressing her cold skin.
she raises a hand,
fine-boned fingers illuminated by the lonely sun,
tugging sharply at reality.
wake up,
sleepy-head,
it's time for school.
the dream is broken,
imagination worn and tired.
sweetheart,
you're going to be late.
tomorrow, she will paint with book-gold
and dance with the sunset.
tomorrow.
