My father walks backwards
better than most walk forward—
so whenever he sewed his steps into the living
room carpet, I rushed to mirror my moon-
walking, until he froze,
froze like he’d been caught
by the beat.

We found our eyes first,
as they swirled through fragments
of black jumper, dark pine trees
and an orange sunset sky

I prayed for resurrection
that the sun in the sky
might dance Easter morning.

Enough of scorch, scald, sore- and rawness.
Sometimes flesh longs for eclipse.

she told me about the still hours
spent at the coast watching the east

Because we were four
and I only had strength to carry one
and knew no other way
I carried the one who called out loudest;
threatened us most.

As you rummage of a morning
among dust-furred personal effects
jumbled in an old
wooden suitcase under a bed . . .

The Lake District Tourist Board
has had no input into what
you are now reading, but I so
miss Cumbria in Holy Week
 

Who will pick the apples now she’s gone?