Something has happened while we lay on the rug on the lawn.
The babies are out here with us. We’d left the big children
in the dark house, watching television, their boy and our oldest girl,
turning ten and eleven this year, almost getting to the too cool stage.
We are outside, finishing glasses of cider and wine
enjoying the new January weather, the sun flickering in and out,
playing hide and seek with shadows, but it’s a great light.
We are talking about the grape vine that’s grown, vividly unkempt,
as high as the second storey balcony, ruffling the breeze.
We'd taken off the babies' nappies, let them play with air on their skin.
Anyway, something has happened. The girls come running
from the other side of the house, tumbling through the light.
Recently they’ve started singing together, taking different parts
in the back seat of the car, which is a change from the fighting.
It’s the third day of a new year and we are already wearing it in,
later we’ll get the sprinkler going for the kids to play under.
I can’t get over the light. The girls come racing over the grass,
words falling out of them in the rush to tell, we smile up at them
and the eight year old tips into my hand the tooth she has finally shed,
her first one, and when she smiles, I see the gap.