The Writer

She was lying on her back,

cool spring drifting in her eyes;


she pointed between the meeting of two pink clouds

golden light dazzling through.

‘There is the peak of Olympus.’

She twisted in her jeans,

‘And there, the entrance to Narnia,’

she was motioning to the evergreens

‘Just past the Faraway tree.’

The rustle of a rabbit

drew her gaze,

‘He’s late.’

she mumbled.

She always stumbled

never looking down

at her feet on the ground,

her head always in the clouds,

in the trees.

At every bar she simply said

‘This isn’t me.

Lewis and Carroll never would

have sipped here,

Homer would have despised

the jazz.’

I took her to fields instead,

to lie in the grass,

level with my eye,

to watch the sky;

the writer I was lucky

to call mine.



© Kristiana Reed 2018

Image credit. 

11 thoughts on “The Writer

  1. Eric says:

    oh wow! This is great, Kristiana! Bars never seemed my style either. always felt clumsy and awkward amid the cigarette smoke and the shouting over the music. “What’s that!?…yes!! I do like opera!!…I’m sorry what?….oh…you said do I come here often?!?….um….no…..” LOL.

    Beautiful piece! 🙂

    Liked by 2 people

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