For Phil (Time Machine)

Inside the jewelled casket of childhood
there is you
there is me
a little boy
a little girl

the colours of the woods, moss and brooks
crackle about us
greenbrown watersilver


you were the Bluebell Prince
and I was Queen of the Tadpoles

my chariot woven of emerald-green weeds
was pulled by the shining black water beetle
his stag-like black antlers waving
and parting the waters before me 

we wandered the wind-silent moss
as if it belonged to us
a pure white fire, the burning white staff of innocence
pierces my heart with longing
to return
to our world 

as it was then
as we were then

we were...        
...more deeply 
within ourselves
than we have ever been
since

every year that we ‘grew up’
took us further and further outside
of our trueness
our bejewelledness
until we sat on the edge of ourselves
dangling our legs in the emptiness
of what had become of us.

Not quite empty.
The casket of jewels
still there
hidden in us.
Slip open the lid.
Slip open the lid. 

Go back with me.
Go back with me.

Deborah W. A. Foulkes, 26.07.2010