The roads we drive on are breaking apart.

Potholes riddle the surface, corrugations

catch us out. Each road is a waking dream,

each road is a ruin we're learning to trust.

Every few weeks

the council seals the damage with gravel.
The conversations we have to have

are holding us together. I lean on something

secure as my voice rises in a losing argument.

The children are near, hearing everything

including the doubts. The television restores calm

as I turn on the water for the bath.
The hakea folia wants to blossom again

and jonquils return memories each night

in the hallway. What is beyond the next

few weeks will affect the winds slipping

beneath the front door. Each time we kiss

the draught stops.
This morning a rabbit was splattered on the road

its blood, so unnecessary, remained with me

visceral as a news image. Only the mundane

tips us over the edge – unpaid bills, the kitchen mess.

Our bitumen driveway leads straight onto gravel.

The better roads I imagine, lead straight to you.