Dorothy’s Lucky Finger

Every Sunday afternoon
She would gather children
Around her garden pond
And show them all her carp.

On arrival they would notice
The finger that she pointed with
Had more wrinkles on it
Than a bowl full of figs.

They would stare at it,
Wide eyed and transfixed
Before looking towards the fish,
Smiling and gasping with glee.

She called it her lucky finger,
It made people listen
And kept their attention,
It had an air of real magic.

She decorated it with two rings,
One had a red stone in
And the other had a green,
She could hypnotise moths.

She said she’d once
Switched television channels
Just by pointing and thinking,
Her finger was a gift from the Gods,

It could gauge the temperature,
Make dogs dizzy,
Predict the coming of storms
And sense danger.

It was a thing of true beauty
Like a fossil or a rainbow,
A lighthouse on a foggy night
Or a dream that might be real.

Her biscuits tasted stale,
Her lemonade was sour,
She smelt musty and awful
But nobody cared.


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