A gory story told in lines of blood...

Out of her yellow pen the daisies danced And fairies; and sunlight that sparkled on the sea. But she had other pens, with other inks. A dark brown pen that wrapped a blanket round her words And gave her winter room such cosiness; and crackling fires, And smiles; and hugs; and ginger cakes still warm. An azure pen, that opened out the roof To flood the world with cloudless blue, from hill to shore, And weeping gulls; and waves, And salty winds that filled your eyes with sky. A crimson pen that wrote its lines in blood; Not just the glistening blood of victims in her book; Or sunsets red as murder, but her own pain, too, And whispered conversations that had hurt her heart. A black pen, filled with shadows and with ravens’ wings, And sadness; and with backs that turned away. But sad or not, each letter that it formed — Each ‘f’, each ‘s’, each ‘l’ — was curved with love, And love, like ink, can never be erased. At night, when she had put her pens away and closed the book, The room was silent. Only the curtains seemed to breathe. But in the morning, when she opened it again, Coffee in hand, her hair still tousled from her dreams, The curtains not yet drawn, From every page burst voices and piano music and the dazzling sun For all her pens in concert, in the night, had brought the dawn. G. Masterton, Tadworth, Surrey.