a wisp of mousy hair nestles between your lashes I gently coax the strand away you bat my hand and say, ‘stop babying me’

and now we cut expose the wrist scissors snip the final thread I threw, that lifeline just in case you need me. These bonds are hard to break.

When we were small maybe 6 and 8 dad bought us matching dream catchers mine was blue and yours green like sister oceans side by side, twin seas each dappled wave a sticky-fingered crystal bead that drips along the perfect web that when we were older maybe 7 and 9 looked too symmetrical to feign…

I stare at an edge that promises relief ash still warms runs down my cheeks and drip drip drips inks round my wrist I display my surgical mark with pride scalpel dances down the dotted line pain for pain pain for peace of mind I choose to have these scars besides the drop’s not far…

I still wear you
on my wrist
limping daisy chains
weak limbed–

Cackle cackle, Mr Goose,
Have your secrets tumbled loose?
‘No!’ Said the Goose, ‘pluck me clean!
I have no secrets, you will see!’

Out the door, right,
Cross the road,               straight –
Take a left: ‘Blind Lane’
winds up to Babcary
towards the bridge where
we used to watch the trains
go by.

We ran down footpaths
past the ‘stick tree’
where dad would fashion
the instruments of our childhood
fantasies, the innocent hostility
of our transposing unknowing
hero and villain antipathies I
breathes frozen irony onto memory

Enclosed in oak
supple curves
of pomegranate, peaches
steeped in slowly
fermenting juice
seeps into cracks
of word-soaked wood