Sian Thomas' Poem as Promised

Spirit Bottle

Here is a body,

a container

of the correct proportions,

a little long perhaps,

a little thin.

Here are sinews,

muscles, bones,

coils and strings

of red and white;

hard, turned sticks

and ivory dowels;

the threads of veins.

Here is a centre,

a lump of a heart

to jig, to flex,

for the rhythm

in the dancing.

Here are lungs,

to squeeze,

to wheeze,

airbags, a throat

for the singing.

Here everything moves,

quivers, pulses,

trills, resounds.

Here’s a home for a spirit,

fill it, fill it.