Through a Child’s Handheld Microscope
If a fairy skated a figure of eight she would carve a deeper groove than lacework on a fly’s wing drowned in a pool on the garden table. We elbow for a turn to see a curled fragment of a dead leaf, moist from days of winter rain, reveal radiant labyrinths. Voices float and ring our breath steams the slide that holds worlds within worlds within one blade of grass. Each bead of a dew drop, is a multi-faceted diamond in our scrappy old backyard.
Margaret Davis lives in the South of England with her husband and son. She enjoys writing poetry and fiction and has been published in Cranked Anvil.
