The crows are restless—a fox nearby.
And I think, this is holy. The river and sky both
the colour of wanting, reflecting like sisters.
 
As we pass the old house, my mother
tells me not to look too closely.
Window ledges peeling, grass untrimmed,
 
a brickwork exhalation. Don’t tell me
not to mourn the Butler sink in the kitchen
where she lathered lavender soap
 
between my toes and her hands,
washing until the shadow of soil fell
from my skin.
 
Tonight we will sit without jackets,
feel the sunlight leave
rather than see it,
 
watch the fleeting silhouettes born
skyward from the trees
then settling, once again.