We cultivate the knack
of getting down on the floor and
back up three or four times each day.

In a dull sky
the guttering flame
of a white heron

We could tell there was something
we weren’t allowed to know. Something
kept hidden from us children

When the waters broke we were
out there, borderless, with just
a view of bloodshot sky from
the labour suite

Stripping wallpaper
leaves naked the scrawls
of yesteryear’s children,
small forecasts of flights
that are inevitable.

  Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep       Goodnight moon, goodnight stars, goodnight cherry, pear, apple tree. Goodnight pond, stop wriggling, newts, stop zipping the water, water-boatmen. Goodnight, glossy horses on the hill, rabbits in the field, white...

an etherial whiteness 

that covers and disguises

as a strip of white frosted glass 

Ambling up North Street
on a Saturday afternoon
at the end of a long Winter,

I am stopped by two women