She’s special, that girl, simply magical.
It’s like sitting next to a radiator,
you can feel the warmth come right off her.
Aura buzzing lightly like a pylon
in the corner of a daisied meadow.
I saw a dragonfly dance with her fingers once,
the Welsh side of The Forest Of Dean.
She’d just opened up a Tawny Owl pellet
and found a small chunk of amethyst inside.
Ghosts follow her around
(Yes, It’s not just me!)
but not for haunting… it’s different.
Animals adore her… they pause…
even police dogs.
Thunder makes her eyes grow
and change colour
and the morning rain
sometimes sounds her name
in passing.
She’s from Timbuctoo, just ask her,
and she’ll tell you in a musical Rhondda accent.
No one reads a palm like she can,
there’s no hiding nor disguising your soul
from her inward gaze.
Strips narcissists naked in seconds,
rewards empaths by the return of favour.
I love to watch her counting pocket shrapnel,
silver for bending ready for the waterfalls
and copper for the children’s teeth and games.
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