The Box

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)