Our family traipses home at dawn,
through fields of poppies
the police haven’t sniffed out yet.
Children, their tiny boots knocking
the heads off bluish puff-balls,
fighting off mists with a flagging balloon.
We walk as exhausted as nun moths
which, having copulated all night,
rest on a bed of oak leaves.
Damp air turning talc solid
in wrinkles, unfurling perms,
seeking a higher incarnation
in far-off lights.
Someone’s slip-on shoe in a steaming turd,
puke on a clump of horseradish leaves.
We struggle across boggy meadows,
stumbling through the valley of Josaphat.