by Peter Goldsworthy
Our son splashes carefully home
from puddle to puddle,
deep stepping stones.
We walk a shout behind
watching from inside our clothes,
breathing small clouds into the sky.
Around us the hard economy of winter:
frugal colour schemes, and underfoot
the worn currency of leaves.
We wrap our clothes tighter,
sheltering our feelings:
this mundane candle-power of love,
these memories of warmth this morning,
our son between us in the bed,
the coins of rain spilling over the roof.
Last updated February 20, 2023