Group-Analytic Contexts, Issue 78, December 2017

Newsletter – Winter 2017 95
Till there among the leaves
It proudly sprouted several more,
so we could gather these.
Our mushrooms took us to the stars,
to heaven and to hell.
Each day we tripped with sodden boots
to look for more among the roots.
We shouted out to passers by
We’ve found a mushroom rare!
Some did not believe and others did not care
It was only fools that foraged in the wasteland that was there.
And when the time which suited us was left to winter’s frost,
We trusted to another year
to find our mushroom rare.
Deep down we knew our chance had gone.
And now alone I wander
where once with friend I walked
And mushrooms come and mushrooms go
But never shall I see again, a mushroom made of gold.
Josephine Canty
Pandora
The net closes.
I leap fish like, onto a rock.
(In search of freedom) or safety.
In the baking heat I am
like an empty drum
Pandora, spewed empty.
she listened to me
watched my moves
saw unheard music from my drum,
and slowly, slowly
within her gaze