Sunday 20 December 2009

Milkbottle

Her child is crying.

Out on the avenue
the syrupy glow
from a night bus passing lights up the hall. Open door.

There's a whole darkness to wander in.
And out of it
lying in bed are day owls
cranking out dreams
brittle to the touch.

The child is not a baby.
 
There's milk in the fridge for you when you can't sleep.
Open door lights up the hall.
There's a whole darkness to wander in.
A frost but no stars. The butter is hard.

Someone will invent a device
that will record the tinkle tinkle of little stars.

The child wants comfort.

Milk is a start but it needs warming.
There's a whole darkness to wander in.
A whole avenue to walk down.
Headphones. The moon.
A cosmic theme tune.

Where stars are miming
her baby is crying.