Blue Damselfly

by Nicola Warwick

Not really what I’d call a wishing well,
but it’ll do – more a man-made folly
of rocks and tumbling water,
a chuckling brook sharing a joke with itself.
And coins, settled at the bottom,
part-sunk in mud, caught
in the process of fossilisation.
I search my purse, toss in something silver,
a twenty, I think, and disturb, almost too
fast to see, a creature on the wing,
its body needle-thin and cobalt.
It stitches this moment to one, years ago,
when I, aged ten, or thereabouts,
refused to join in, saying I knew
I wouldn’t get what I wished for.

Copyright © 2020 Nicola Warwick





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