Cloud nine and threequarters.

Cloud nine and threequarters.

The women laugh

Loose limbed

Stretched out together

Lounging on cold slabs

Air-conditioned

In the molten heat

Of summer

Difference is incremental

The needles clack

Always in the making

The smell of babies

Cracked nipples

The wonder of life

Never forgot

The ache in the bones

Ancient grannies

Glow

Old fingers work the wool.

The wonder of menfolk

Fallen by the wayside

The stink of them

The weight of them

Their harsh words

Soft bellies

Wayward eyes

The cackle of coarse laughter

The lightness of a kiss

The warmth of a body

The touch of a bloodied hand

The way they were

When the bairns were born

Never short of stories

There is love in them.

Old men grouse

Afraid to touch the space

Between

Too choked up

Years of hard things to swallow

Pushed to the back of the throat

Tamped down

Into the pipe

The fuse lit

The cannons ready

Always another war

Never a moment’s peace

The empty floor

A step too far

A dead zone

Between them

Touching distance is a long way

From being a done thing

The women laugh

A sound like soft rain

There is a loosening of tongues

Something in the air

The smell of other summers

Well remembered

There is dreaming

Generosity of spirit

Late blooming.

In good time

There might be restitution

A willingness of souls

To cross the Rubicon

And to dance.