Exhausted because I know
that whichever wind does blow
It will *******
away.

Below stairs where my bones creak like the old chairs and Molly makes the mood that makes the house.

Stirring her tea
she stirs something in me, but
I am the gramophone that needs winding up and in the winding I find there's a treasure of pleasure, a measure of muchness for me.  

The winter arrives and surviving another family get together
I tether my teeth to the roof of my mouth and head south for the sun and yet togetherness tidies the mess that we make as bones start to creak and hearts start to ache,
age on every yellowing page runs through the story of a life.

Molly
sits with her face to the wall, but she's got eyes in the back of her head.


Forestry.

The bough may break before dawn, but the child will be born,
will be raised
will spend its days
planting trees.