Goodnight Biography

Beneath a pleached paseo,
The author of children’s books
Wandered, slightly pensively.

Like anyone fond of tales,
Hearing them and telling them,
Reading them, making them up,

She had lived so many lives,
Only one of them her own.
She was a little surprised,

To be honest, that she had
Only the one to herself.
She tried to peer through the leaves

Tightly woven overhead.
The stars would be out. The stars
Were always out. She wondered

If anything had become
Of her stories in other
Lives, after hers had failed her,

Had collapsed into the one
And been buried like any
Other. She had no idea.