Monday, 3 September 2012

Chocolate Chips by Niamh Hill


The biscuit tin empties
as sand falling through hands,
each crumb, fragrant, reminiscent,
hopeful of a chocolate chip.

The debris litters the floor,
an armoured knight enters the realm,
a lid for shield, a palette knife a sword,
biscuit crumb dandruff
ruining the illusion.

Boots become clamouring hooves
the war drum beats an eerie cry
as a misplaced thrust catches unaware
a small knight toppled,
amid crumbs and sobs

a smile as fingers find
chocolate chips
in ruffled hair.

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