by Siddiq Islam

These are the things that I tend to remember.
A soft, supple night with a close, quiet air.
A little prince clutched by the light’s final ember.
The warm, thick-skinned fingers that comb through his hair.
He’s safe from all harm. With her lips she dismisses
All nightmares and vampires with silk forehead kisses,
Between which she whispers each flame-coloured line
That slips past her teeth, scarcely heard, down his spine,
And into his heart, where a small fire’s kindling.
A little torch blinks where her poetry blows.
These verses he’ll carry wherever he goes.
A soft, supple night with stars twinkling, un-dwindling.
A baby swayed, cradled against loving breasts.
A pair of huge arms where a little prince rests.