Our new house from the ale trail train
I spot it.
Know about over-dwellings
and this means we only own it
from the first floor.
Our attic window is open
and I see you wave.
You must be on a stool to do this.
I can’t always be there
to hold you
to warn you
not to reach up
as high as you can.
With a wobble of legs
I watch you grip the rim
and imagine you topple
I hear the impact of the earth.
Know you would not survive this.
I will you back in,
your bruised shins,
your dimpled bum,
your fingernails with an under-dwelling of soil
gathered by mud pie break-times
with new friends I can’t yet name.
I know what the front of our house looks like,
anyone who has travelled on the 184
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