The stairs were red that led to the lake
where the black boat waited,
anchored fast and long forgotten.
Waterfalls are the way to worlds,
but Will was in the attic, lost
in bags of odd bangles and battered dolls.
His breath rattled in the darkness,
and the dust whispered of grace:
of blood and bone, of nails and stone.
Old Rachel’s box was full of scarves
from Spain, and bowls of stone and glass.
She dressed in brown and wound
red and yellow beads around her braids.
By day she searched along the river
for her child, lost black places.
By night she prayed over silver chains
and kindled hope in a small iron grate,
of blood and love and unveiled fire.
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Errant Ink 