Storm

1 August 2015

A day so full of promise
you might kiss
your own arm.
The baby bowls
our gathered avocados
across the kitchen floor’s
worn lino. We
bowl them back then
step outside to where
there’s always air
to go around. We breathe
our share, watch
as a mountain range of clouds,
edges lit like art,
moves in.

This morning someone mowed
an oval in the grass
around the cottage.
Outside the mown border all is wild,
roaring. Inside, the grass is groomed,
serene, just like the lawn the year
our childhoods upped a gear. Elm trees
elderly, autumnal. Beneath them
our father and an uncle locked
in combat, fringed
by the herbaceous border.

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