Mother to son

Fifteen years these hands
have leaved about you; here's

the church & here's the steeple;
constructing a landscape.

Exalted from the initial dunking,
you prise the slats, escape artist;

beating like a fontanelle
within the ngaio tree.

The movement being ever outwards.
Go then, from this softer shadow;

love your own sexy sweetness;
trust your own truth.

See for yourself how we all
do glint, one off another.