I open my eyes to you
hoping for a just that is too much
Much muchness Mrs Madame
you are very well for the ill!
you kill me
to the day gently –
The door left open behind
Festooned private eyes,
Your mother’s contemporaries
Watching you slowly
Where she was and should have been
The small births of summer colour,
how they do walk in fits and starts,
complicating your destination agenda.
Worded pleas: failed propaganda.
You sit with them by the blasted rocks.
Paved lake, pathway,
feet crooking over two surfaces.
The pale grass folds back
small bodies do collapse on to,
against a lilting breeze.
A hand is held. A spotted cheek is scratched
red sowed for your caress,
the small births of summer