Chickens queue at my cousins gate,
Their embroidery glitters,
Like an exhibition
Laid out
At the V&A.
We eat their eggs,
Or not, you say,
They we're bought nearby, yesterday.

A blackbirds sings out of season,
We choke slightly on its song.
Grief, like a family name, follows,
Wrongness,
Like a boy hit by a drunken Father
When he was down.

We have mills in common,
Shod hooves on a peat path.
A Hardy blacksmith's daughter,
Iron hissing in its water bath,
Passion,
Spawns a tree,
Like us,
Made of paper.