It’s past nine and breakfast is over.
With morning frost on my hands I cross
the white grass, and go nowhere.
It’s icy: domestic. A grain
of coffee burns my tongue. Its heat
folds into the first cigarette.
The garden and air are still.
I am a stone and the world falls from me.
I feel untouchable – a new planet
where life knows it isn’t safe to begin.
From silver flakes of ash I shape
a fin and watch it with anguish.
I hear apples rolling above me;
November twigs; a bare existence –
my sister is a marvellous
dolphin, flanking her young.
Her blood flushes her skin
but mine is trapped. Occasional moments
allow me to bathe in their dumb sweetness.
My loose pips ripen. My night subsides
rushing, like the long glide of an owl.
Raw peace. A pale, frost-lit morning.
The black treads of my husband on the lawn
as he goes from the house to the loft
laying out apples.