The Chronicles of Folly Butler, part one
from Act 1 of The Chronicles of Folly Butler
© Gerry Potter, 2014


Teacher’s voice telling you to grow,
curl from yourself into a tree,
you ‘n’ thirty in singlets, knickers, underpants.
Tiny feet pad parquet, taps of little dancers.
Fingers stretching,
Victorian windows,
radio’s melody,
piano ‘n’ puppets,
winter spring sun and free dinners.

Before extreme shyness,
before understanding trauma,
in colourful council of infancy, Folly Butler takes root.
Little like a fairy,
light as a Lightbody,
blemishless ‘n’ beautiful.

I remember Miss Purcell’s purple hair,
twin-set pearled beside young daffodils
and inside story books,
dancing within her words,
Folly Butler.
Saw her in sounds’ magic,
in pictures’ sounds.
In the joy of Miss Purcell’s storytelling,
weaving bobbins,
selling tales.
Miss Purcell loved daffodils.

“Folly Butler” is written in mint green graffiti
on mint green walls and clings.
Warmth from stone steel radiators.
She’s mint.
Lived outside books,
outside mouth in others’ imagination,
child places even children can’t touch.
Less a breath,
more a wisp.

Horrorless mystery,
tweak between comics and Halloween.
Feather-light in snowy relief’s of biscuit tins.
In sleepy eyed dreams,
singing and ringing roses.

Folly Butler has a pen,
on a leaf writing in daffodil stories of unborn girls.
About to be seen,
disappears.