Oct 2016

Morning broke mauve,
hungover from the night
like the rising bellied dockers
of our terraced, sea streets.

She'd set to make tea,
tiptoeing on the tension
of a tightrope
between their fractious father
and mothers contorted indignance.

In her over-caution
she did spill milk,
a perilous slip
that saw her nightdress lifted
and legs tanned with temper.

Perditious paths under purple dawns,
where we were taken in hand
by the crooked and the cold,
chastened in our kitchens;
in churches of ruination.