The High Tower

Rapunzel is an octogenarian,
hair thinning, pottering
in her tower.
From the window she watches
the traffic pass, the children took
the keys to her car.
A stair lift bends helter-skelter to the ground.
Silence is an orchestra tinny ringing
in her ears,
she listens to the rise and fall of hours.
Kings’ sons have rusted gasp-jointed
into their armour,
chargers retired to the long grass.
Her belief in princes was long ago
let down.
In her fingers the spindle often idles,
slips of songs wobble
in her throat.
The grandfather clock strikes a cackle
as the lock clicks shut.