She’s digging with her hands for coloured glass
and losing contact with a finger end.
Meanwhile the light has turned less granular –
the bedroom re-emerging as it was
yesterday and all the days before. She’s out
almost before she wakes. The path is wet.
Still in her night dress with a Barbour jacket
from off the hook beside the kitchen door
around her shoulders she surveys
the spreading weeds of her dog days
and glares up close at thistle flowers
like purple shaving brushes on which bees
are docking warily and with precision.
That movement in the distance must be me,
the morning shift arriving. It’s too early
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