Their family.

I sleep to a night that tinkles

Cold boat bells sewn up

In their rings.

The quilt waves and ripples hide

All but a glimpse

Of the funeral procession.

 

From these waters no one will stride

Like my mother through a bog,

Spilling light into my lair.

She gave me a needle and thread

To loosen the weave

Of my favourite dress.

 

The hemline’s poorly stitched

And I crouch greenly

In the beam of seamless edifice;

Pass ivy-wrought queens

With my eye to the wall, in awe.

 

From the ledge I peer,

Spy the swell of movement

Cast shadows on the wall,

Murmurs in shallow vaults of air,

The scent of food

And scorched, happy skin.

 

Behind dark glass

A family sleeps

And in my letters I reach in

To kiss their faces,

To sense their honey

Before I turn in my chest

To the square, the centre.

 

The cobbles find a splash of words

Dead in morning light

By the law of Clockwork Man

Who sends the world to work.