On the surface nothing changed
no birds threaded footsteps in the back door
there was no wraith omening the end.
So, Saturday night pyjamaed, we tumbled by the tv
cadged chips or a bite of pineapple fritter
from a Golden Grill takeaway before bed.
Sunday morning we trotted up the chapel floor,
took our places on our knees, socks pulled up,
picked at the chalices glued to the front of our missals.
We clacked roller-skated laps around the houses
popped tennis-balls off the wall, minded the younger ones.
Flinging skyward, we lifted the swing set out of the ground.
I read of periods and love-bites in second-hand Jackies.
wanted a dog, believed in books and God and parents.