My Cloak
Within my cloak I draw the winds Its folds are clouds and trees The lining green and green on green Runs all the rain in satin streamers.
Taut with its inner winds I hold this cloak
Its billowing curves embroidered with a mimic earth
Then quickly snap the fastening shut
And let it fall
Let all
Collapsing over Cover me.
Outside there lies a still dark heap But inside I am now my cloak.
By the age of five I was able to read fluently. The books I found in my grandmother's library were not at all intended for children. However, I ploughed through Sir Walter Scott and Rider Haggard and Ella Wheeler Wilcox and a number of pseudo-mystical works which gave me a great distaste for all mumbo-jumbo. The poem is about finding refuge in books.
Peter John Dean
SourceLicence:CC BY-ND 3.0