Her Voice

The baby sock rests in the car park
Its stripes worn down
Away
By the gravel
Gravel which grazes and grates
rips and tears
Forcing its way through skin as delicate as a plum
A thin little layer to keep the world from biting down deeper
I go home
I feel uneasy
Thinking
Locked inside these stories
Nurturing my desire
tojumptocrosstoholdoutahandtothetrucktodowhateverwhatever
itdoesntmatterwhatever
At home I know what to do
I pin my hair back so I can see
Look in the mirror
Take a picture
(no one else will)
Years marked out in the changes
A trip here a fall there
It all grinds you down in the gravel
Like an amateur
But there is something I find
When she sings
I smile
Almost cry
There is the fire held diligently inside
She shouts it out for me
Picks the baby up dusts off the stones and breathes
She says don’t follow me close
And I am happy tripping and skipping in her wake
Feet like rainbows stories like rain
Just behind her I will be
Catching the tinder flames
Wrapping myself up in her voice.