Beth Burnett

Storyteller

By Beth Burnett

The Queen’s Guard glares at me again

As I cross the street in front of him.

Back and forth

My hands clasped against my rib cage

I’m well aware that I look a fool

In my house dress

And Doc Martin boots.

A fat, flowered widow who can’t let go.

Every chime from Big Ben seems to ring in my throat

around the lump I can’t quite swallow.

I went to Stonehenge last week,

perhaps I thought I’d sense something there –

A spirit, a guide, energy.

Instead, I saw a lot of tourists and

a man wearing flowing purple robes

who held out his hand to me and implored me

to take this crystal

for the one I seek.

Remembering, I stare into the guard’s face

and imagine asking him to hold me.

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