Alone, I drive along the midnight, winter road. My left hand at the 12 o’clock position of the steering wheel. And I coast. I let out the day’s long breath, which started out today as a sigh.

My mother is here, and might not have been,
so I hold things tighter:
the small-getting-smaller of her
running with my daughter down the beach . . .

My stubby maroon glove spent a chill night
on the velvet ridge of Clent Hills
tangled in summer-dried grasses

It’s Wednesday and / again / I’m laying pages of newspaper on the kitchen table / tipping up the food waste bin /

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.