The vans arrive
before we finish packing boxes
in the spare bedroom.
We can’t remember where
we’ve put the child seat
but why we want it is a mystery –
she left home years ago.
I’m certain I took down all the curtains,
but there they are, up again, looking
Why are you wearing
the suit you bought for our wedding?
We have to go – our new house is waiting.
We nearly collide with two
removal men on the stairs.
They walk straight through us.
MORNING, EARLY MARCH
This window’s propped open with a towel.
The wind sounds worse than it is, like water,
or traffic. Saturday, 6.30am. The trees out there
are shaking themselves free of the week.
In the courtyard, boxes of shrubs
half-heartedly planted. Slate roofs with
a fine powder of moss. What look like
seed-pods are catkins, hardly noticeable at first.
It’s a subterranean world swaying in plain sight,
weekend green with kelp and seaweed – even
the birds have noticed with soundwaves from
their altered songs travelling through this different element.
Extraordinary roots called branches grasping
at air unable to stem its fast flow.
In the first year of secondary
she wanted handwriting
like rows of neat stitches
a cropped furry hairstyle
at work she wanted her own office
a window that other people couldn’t stand in front of
a pass to get out of meetings
Lately she’s wanted Japan, all of it –
its chaos and its ritual
its numerous floating islands –
but most of all she wants
a pale green beach house
not a chalet
which the sea visits
and that’s not on any map