The problem is

there is always another load

for the washing machine, and a

few things waiting to be hand washed

and draped on the trestle, out of

the sweep of the motorbike path.

Or a kitchen arrayed with bowls

and pans, loitering above the

unstacked dishwasher, just a few

minutes to tidy, then the bills

on the desk to distract from starting

to write, as the phone rings asking

for the nocturnal child, who grunts

awake, then listlessly opens

cupboards, unable to find

easy grazing, his head in his

hands gets me cracking up eggs and

frying and toasting and happy

good morning - and never mind the

words that stay stuck in the hallway

two steps and a world from the page.

Helen Thurloe