Little Girl Yellow

Three years ago I lived in a house that came with a garden.

Curling and accommodating; south-facing, red door.

Pink Primroses and Partridge Peas; Pineapple Lily's and a 


Privet Tree,

Or maybe two.

                I had no need for it.

But a little girl would come. A bumbling girl who'd slip 


sloppily over, the smart, low brick wall.

Yellow wellies, yellow hair, sticky mouthed and cross. She 


would come to sit amongst the weeds.

Some times she would sit and talk.

Twiddling twigs into her hair, punching chubby arms to and 


fro.

“Off with the little dags head”, “Shut up you crones”. Like 


an angry drunk she'd spew and spout. Offering hasty slaps to 


conjured staff.

At other times she would dig deep wells into the mud. 


Cauldrons. She purred over them, dropping in remnants and 


ragged talisman.

“Frosted lice. Four mermaid gems. Lilac heads and moss”.

She produced beasts from those dank holes. Women mainly. 


Frightening women. Mismatched and welded by an untrained 


hand.

Where their breasts should be; oranges,

With little raisin freckles and marigold nails.

A horse would leap forth from between their legs and their 


feet lurched forward on wooden carriages; four wheeled 


skates. Tin foil eyes and teeth.

Craven ladies.

Or was that me?

I called them The Lost Misanthropists.

Her names probably sang to a different tune; Princess 


Priscella Pretty Betty Ann, or Mrs Mirabella Marmalade 


Moptop.