you don’t know

the one who wakes to write

don’t recognise

her running face alight

don’t know

the music of the undertow

or why

they prize

a face like snow

nor how she prays

or where

the chain is

attached today

like a kite

flying

tethered light by sinew-string

so high

you don’t even

hear her sing

 

 

Photo: Rosie Kerr on Unsplash