If this was all that was required of her –
to be this girl,
in this white dress –
frilled and flounced –
to walk forever to and fro
on this green lawn,
wending and weaving
between these hoops,
and carrying this ridiculous
croquet mallet, smiling politely –
how would that be?
If this was all that was expected –
to be pretty enough, to talk,
to laugh at the right moment –
and not at any other –
to sip tea
from a bone china cup,
to breathlessly decline
to play again –
would that be sufficient?
Or would there always be some part of her
that feared
the shock of anger
a sudden spilling of blood –
bright red, staining
white dress, bone china,
green grass.
Back on that magic mushroom...
Sarah writes poems 