She had a box full of taffeta, ermine,
shoes made of petals, those of a rose.
Satin, worn thin beneath copper trees,
a deep scarlet hood on a wolfish coat.
She had a shadowy wizard’s curtain,
a diamond tiara, cold giant’s gold,
spider silk scarves, spun in the breeze,
the Queen of Persia’s purple robes.
She had a pipe for charming vermin,
the enchanted horn from a unicorn,
a princess’s quilt, a bag of dry peas,
precious stones, a gift from the trolls.
She had a ring, made in a mountain,
a splinter of oak from an elfish boat,
a swan’s crown made of silver leaves,
bricks made of straw, long flaxen ropes.
She had a ball from a crystal fountain,
shards with a mote, from a mirror that spoke,
a puppet’s long nose, a harp that weeps,
a needle that pricks, a witch’s warm cloak.
All this she showed me, of this I’m certain,
her magical box, the tales that she told.
Forbidden to touch them, one day I stole
its ebony key and some beans which I sold…
© Sue Hardy-Dawson from Where Zebras Go (Otter-Barry Books)