Mary Anne Griffiths

Moles

Below the blistered wood a lead fist:

these four little ones under the thumb of a blind mother

unfold like an anxious sky, cloud-knotted, remembering sun, pine-crush, touch before assuming earth

before fear sweated the palm of the nest.

S.A.D.

The screen door is closed against the crickets. Only eleven tomatoes remain on the window sill, gathering the colour of the leaves that weaken their hold on the branches.

On the lit porch descending into standard time something is leaving…

Happiness goes like that, turns the latch, steps out into September, drawing the dusk around itself like a jacket against the cold.