Michael Mackmin
A Thread
Ann was dusting the apples.
Her daughter was having her
dressings changed, at the same time
wondering 'was it worth it?'.
They both wondered that - never
spoke it to the other though.
The bough had broken and Ann
had had to pick the apples,
piled them in bowls about the house,
more than I can ever eat.
The daughter said to her friend but
I couldn't, because of the child.
And Ann said that too: it was a thread.
The men were banging the chimney about,
making it safe for winter. Sorry
they said for all the dust.
Page(s) 49
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