A key on a short string unlocks
a metal door to an unlit stair, steep
wooden steps, a turn at the top

      Grandfather/Grandson A hot, dry day in an already arid season. I stumble through stands of age-misshapen oaks, leaves blistering brown as they beckon me into the shade. From time to time, I glimpse a clearing to one side of the path, or a view...

Having earned their wings through evolution
it is almost as though they are loth to use them
preferring familiar earth, the old tree’s broad shadow.

 
So, what has brought you in today Mrs…?
Owens. Mrs Owens.

When the light returns

I will remind the garden.

Along with the robins

who have cast off

their Christmas card coyness

to mate.

it’s the end of the world and i choose
bottom shelf body wash, top shelf
shampoo. almost all the way over the
edge, i choose brand name bleach, leave

I step into the darkness as the last light fades.
The stars are not there yet. The campfire gleams
in grey ash. And I am alone with the night.

Down the great hill we plunged,
not scared of picking up speed
because that was the point,
running fast as a horse.

We’ll find the beach, but first through
the flowering wood, there’s celandine,
little suns of spring, casting.