Poem 170

A poem for Katherine that missed out on being included in To The Roughhouse (Poem 38) or was written afterwards …

… the paradox of having children who you will live on through is that you also give birth to your pallbearers …

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She is my age thrown open
ticking in her cot
            one day to measure
            me dead
as thin and hard
as a greyhound
she'll pace me

she lifts her hands to the mobile's
        bright fury
and these that wind the colour
and the movement
stiffen
            in her white light