It’s Rosemary Anderson!

 

Rosemary Anderson is a mouthful.

She chases away

the son of Andreas;

a pigeon in the park.

 

‘Rosemary Anderson!!!!!’

(Fire on the school bus?)

She glides through the window

courting dark.

 

Where does she swim to?

Rosemary Anderson clings to cliffs,

crusted with quartz,

and offers herself to Aphrodite in the foam.

 

Except when she’s clothed in bats

stirring herbs into potions

(humming is suspect),

and she rises atop the owl’s back.

 

Rosemary Anderson is a bang.

Can’t somebody contain her?

Rosemary Anderson is a dancing dasher.

Can’t somebody restrain her?

 

Rosemary Anderson is the friable rock

falling at the sea’s peak –

Perhaps she’ll cast it off,

like flicking sand from feet –

 

 

 

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