You may see the children

Every second week I take

my sons back to their mother:

with hugs, a final look,

one warm belly to another.

Sun and moon far west

tip a singing heart

‘Ta-ra my lads, it’s for the best’

turning backs, apart.

Throats move,

Adam’s apples,

eyes of love,

no appeals

blurring sight;

twelve days. Goodnight.