The moon was as yellow as a
wheel of slow-ripened camembert
The strawberry moon sat
suspended a sky of blood.
His tiny hand was as soft as
warm peaches in mine.
I flew higher and higher.
I was king of the skies.
The water was deep green, like a
pounamu that had been rubbed
by many hands.
The water was a wet hurricane,
sucking hard at my legs, pulling
me under.
The leaves twirled like dancers
celebrating the autumn harvest.
The leaves stuck to the bench,
magnetised by some unseen
force.
His feet hit the cement like a dry
cough.
She sprinted, cheetah on
wildebeest, chasing down the
frontrunners.
The ride was like a bright candy
corkscrew against the steady
mountains.
The a giant’s clumsy scrawl
tacked proudly on the sky.
They sang like three little
fresh-scrubbed, photogenic,
cheek-pinching angels.
Their voices blended in
energetic harmonies.
They loved each other like
siblings; that is, loving siblings,
not the kind that cut your hair in
the middle of the night.
His cuteness was delicious.
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