leaning lean as in lent the fastening approach of light lengthening days hallow of Spring
charcoal smudge across my brow stench of incense and a threshold to cross fresh with memory
the garden being that bluster of arrival when all is raw and uncertain the soil and buds

breaking

and I took you by the hand and I take you up where the wardrobe rests motherly against the wall
where we climb close the mirrored door and knees up to our ears drape in smell of moth-balls

hems and fastenings of dresses frocks as Grandma would call them falling like ivy on our bare

skins

wood or wardrobe the spinney seems to close a door behind us and we are alone things get hard
there is shouting in the close-knit trees as the wind sweeps and muffles the coo of wood pigeons
my favourite game springs to mind to escape naked the raw earth and all in the garden that is not

safe

I am now with ash cross smeared on my forehead atoning portent of this narnia of winters
the smeared ash is burnt wood forest fires marking me like a sign post to an uncertain future
you told me I was a door I don't want to be the door I smash the mirror and inside find a

child