Tuesday, 17 September 2013

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.

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