Dragons Poem by Peter Jones

Do the dragons come into your night, Marie-Clare,
And roar out your name when you sleep?
I can see from the pain that’s burnt in your stare,
You have terrible secrets to keep.

You tried to forget that slashed dress, Marie-Clare,
And the face that was streaming with blood.
But you cannot blot out the cold rain in your hair,
As you lay there, crushed deep in the mud.

So it helps that the screams of your pain, Marie-Clare,
Have diminished and don’t seem so bad.
And maybe it’s kinder that, in your despair,
You have now gone so utterly mad.

You just gaze at the walls of your room, Marie-Clare,
Too scared now, even to walk.
But the dragons have still not returned to their lair,
Which is why I can’t get you to talk.

In that little glass ball that you grip tight in your hand,
What beautiful rainbows you see.
And now that your thoughts have turned into sand,
Then at last, Marie-Clare, you are free.