Sunday, 5 February 2012
When Esme sank into the mud
She held a prism of frozen blood,
And horrified, the passers-by
Had but one question: "Esme, why?
If this is all some kind of trick
We think your sense of humour's sick."
But Esme's fingers, tapering, sharp,
Are now elsewhere. And play the harp.
(With thanks to Magpie Tales for the picture)