Breakable things submerge and are buried by the endless wash of tides,
They curl up and sit in squander on their own. In a corner
A dying moth flutters – it has looked
Too long at the bright electric light.
Broken things can sometimes be mended
With strong, double sided cellotape
Or PVA glue.
A kiss may mend a small, grazed knee,
And chocolate solves everything, don’t’cha know?
Ruined towns lie beneath volcanic ash,
Beneath the salty seas,
Lingering deep in the shreds of imagination,
In the strands of hair at the nape of the neck
And in the things yet to be discovered.
We find hope.
(Because we look for it)
I was thinking about Fragile Things, a collection of short stories by Neil Gaiman, when I wrote this – not the stories themselves, but the title of the anthology. I’d read an interview where Gaiman had discussed how the cover of his anthology was created, and what he had in mind when naming it.