The Edge of Neverland
A poem
The end begins: a storm, with noisy, hot tears tapping at the window, while a playful shadow waits to sneak inside.
She crept out, quietly and flew — that girl who begged you; “make a wife of me” at 24. You’re free: find love that stays, keeps two feet firmly on the floor.
Michael and John are drawing dreamscapes, dancing between trees, grazing knees and brushing wingtips on the edge of Neverland.
I do my fairy best; spinning thin blankets out of cobwebs, weaving thick stories in this cuckoo’s nest, serving imaginary feasts to toys.
They miss your arms and your attention, working so hard for that “one day” (too far away to mention) when the shop, and every clock in it, is yours.
I keep them safe, close, pressed against my chest, sleep deep on piled up mattresses, songs on repeat, until it’s time
to pack their things, think happy thoughts and take them home. We might have sixty years, you know,
left of our lives. To teach our boys not to be hasty with those batshit crazy, quirky would-be wives.
Each time a grown up says; “I don’t believe in marriage” somewhere, a marriage falls down, dead. A ‘happy ever after’ dies.
Each time a girl tries to squeeze her wings beneath a tight, white dress a child grows up, forgets that he can fly.
They clapped and clapped but something ticked and tocked inside and when she stopped believing all The Lost Boys said; “we weren’t surprised”.
Amy Knight
