in the cold puddles
concentric rings play tag
with the sky flannelled in
shades of grey, soft from
the wind and granite from
the anger of shouted thunder
arguments, the tree's shake
losing what little cover
they have left and stand
stark naked and dripping
on the muddy floor.
the river flows high and
unchecked vomiting brown
bile and wreckage out into
the sea, only for it to become
a puzzle of detrius on the beaches edge
leaving junkheaps and carcasses for
treasure hunters to find....
and still the puddles play
tag with the cold and weeping sky

On the edge
I'm nine again
standing
daringly atop the stairs bannister,
wearing my Holly-Hobbie flannelled gown.
Artex ceiling barnacles rough against my palms.
I can smell onions, coal, and doom.

On that edge
I imagine
falling,
flying like an angel.
Butterfly arms carrying me skyward
away, away from frozen failure,
just like Daddy will.

On this edge
I'm no longer nine,
I'm waiting,
longer than my nine-year-self would have.
Waiting for the crescendo
in my glass-heart to choose,
fall hard or rage harder.