Five a.m. planes shuffle
push & slide as time
loops from my
fingertips:
you sleep in
another’s bed
head cradled
by the night
splash of sun
at dawn.
The children
concertina
riding their own
projectory,
& the sea is in
my thoughts
demands I shred
these London
days;
head for the horizon
where the whales
sing:
where the big dipper
signs my name
silently
in starlight.
Victoria Mosley 