You are the ghost of my smile

my lips curve upward when I think of you

... you are my secret desire..

no one knows about you..

not even you

know how I think of you

want you... almost love you

all day long

all boring day long

you are the ghost of desire

you keep me hanging on

you make me smile

and you don't even know it

my ghost

my lovely ghost.

At six years old she picked the wild violets here
in the huge and wonderful expanse of her
grandparents big garden.
She knew no fear,no worry,no torment at all.
All she had to accomplish that day was to fill her little fist
with a bunch of the wild,wet,tantalizing,
blue and white violets.
... Everywhere she looked she saw them...
nodding like dreamers in the tall,damp grass.
just out of reach
and where they grew was wet,
and her shoes got cold and damp as water crept up
and touched her.
She could hear people coming to her grandfather's mill,getting jobs done,
and stopping to chat.
It was the background of this hot day in June.
Grasshoppers and crickets were there too
as much a part of her childhood as anything else.
She thought they were amazing.
She saw her grandmother go to the store..
she was too far away to hear her call
it felt strange
and she got a little scared.
Suddenly the big garden seemed dark and and full of
monsters.
The sun went behind a cloud and sweat washed her
hot little face.
She reached mightily for a few
more wet violets
and raced to her grandfather and
the sweet smell of the sawdust and wood.
Saved by childhood.

Secrets...by Donna Earle..
We have no place in the dewy world of little forest ways,
no place for us,
leave,leave,
we are not wanted there,
... in the green shade of the ghost flowers,
and in the gloaming of the day,
the fairies and the
spiders play.
We will never know their joy,
or even imagine their lives.
They were here before the sun was born
and will stay forever.
Secrets and webs,
and orange flowers,
hidden from us,
a world lost ,
a fairy tale,
a secret.

She slipped on the dress on a flower day,
she smiled in the mirror
the month was May..
Her skins was warm and smooth as silk,
her face was pale,
like honey and milk.
Her bedroom was hot,
and smelled of dreams,
and linen and muslim,
and wooden beams.
The church was waiting,
her mother cried,
all the while
something died.
She touced her lips,
a phantom kiss,
picked up her bouquet
of lavender mist.
Walked to the church
on a gravel road,
all around her
the sun burned gold.
The church was hushed
with summer and love
with neighbours and strangers...
she twisted her gloves.
Country bride,
put a smile on now,
pretend and go forward,
there are fields to plough.