The gryphon – RTMM

Alice remembers this gryphon.
It jutted out from the tower –
pastiche, of course, some
forebear with a fantasy.
Alice has sympathy with that,
and with this gryphon,
reduced by time and weather,
features blurred. She strokes
his face, gentled by erosion.

Alice is not a sentimental
woman, but this gryphon
watched over her childhood
games, her intense
imaginings. She cannot bear
to leave him here,
in this yard full of
statues, chipped,
moss-softened,
greying marble –
an angel with a missing hand
pointing a stump
to heaven;
a nymph, punished
for some long-forgotten
crime, her nose chipped off;
a lion with a rakish look,
hindquarters crushed.

Alice is not a sentimental
woman, but she shudders.

 

Riding that mushroom again.

 

 

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