golden locks
tightly wound string
sprung loose
across floors
coated in sawdust
in old Mr. Higgins’ workshop

every full moon
the old chap
gathers net and honey
and tears of joy
spreads some across
his garden
awaits
as slowly
solemn holy flies
land
get caught
he pulls on rope
drags them back home

they sing as they watch
how he braids their hair
makes necklaces of gold
and pearly satin from their skin
their unfortunate symphonies
he records to sell
the highest bidder he finds on the streets
between dark alleys
and rainbow puddles

from the branches
of his old oak tree
Higgins carves and mends
some tiny coffins
fit for fairies
crafted for innocents
and buries them
next to the stump
on his old property

the nights of no moon
he gathers what remains
spreads the wooden dust
like the ashes
he never burned