Three poems by Wendy Pratt
Our future is a free flying kite or a gull or a scarf on the wind. I bend gracefully to thank and smile, thank and smile; a ballerina in a music box. That night I unpin my hair, in a ritual undressing, a re-virgining of my whole self, it seems absolutely right that the roots at my scalp ache, as if some pain is necessary. We lay together in the room with the panoramic views stretching sea wards. The next day we joke, we hope. It’s on both sides, the problem.