Fontanelle

What do you dream in the sheaves of night
when evil seems just a finger away?
Are there lions bold or angels gold,
dear child do tell me, say.

What paintings can lay in a gentle crib
where no brush had licked before?
Those fragile feet yet to touch on land
only eyes that have seen the shore.

What stirs within those silky curls
in temperance and unspoiled clay?
are there ghosts about to wear their bones,
dear child do tell me, say.

Where do the owls and badgers nest?
And are they monsters beneath knitted eyes?
Or is everything tame until it gets named
in that unfolding paradise?

How stir the winds under solemn skies
and do the hunted get a chance to pray?
Are there columns of satin devoid of flame,
dear child do tell me, say.

Where go the serpents who slip the noose
in the velvet hood of night?
Is there a hell beyond dimly lit cells
or is chaos swallowed by light?

Are there Gods and monsters within your reach?
What seasons parade your day?
Are they barbed like rain or soft as berries
dear child do tell me, say...

@Steven Francis poems 2010