Molly's Home
A dream home, Molly's home:
a gaggle of sprogs,
each freckled guise
standing in a slubbed wool
jumper like tiny
colourful lambs
or perhaps little moths,
dusty and dingy
as attic rooms,
with their spots like dirt and
grime on pale pink skin,
though they are clean.
Some frown at the poor sight,
at the lack of fore-
sight with which she
planned her impressive brood,
as if a meagre
nest-egg could prove
the exiguity of
love present in this
converted sty.
Seven children, each named
for greatness, for kings
and one red queen
of hearts who dreams of scars,
fairytales, green eyes
and beheading.
Secretly, she is her
mother's favourite
raggamuffin,
the little weasel who
carries both the crown
and the burden,
for Molly's home grows a
family tree of
purest blood and
poverty, knowing the
absence of gold's weight
in their pockets.