Home's far and grown old. A friend gives

birth in three hours in a snowstorm

on the floor of a flat in Camberwell.

Poppy Wotherspoon, born in snow.

I walk with a pen and futures I tried to have

and couldn't. Not to want a child but to not

later want to've wanted.

Keep it simple so: Went out walking in Berlin

with wet hair, and realized through a year all grief ‘d

dried. And winter burst in.

Sing then the might haves. Sing the death not sought.

Sing so much seeking. Interrupting – after some months

enter a new character – and why this one, why him?

Because a particularly snowed-in winter, because

a friend's disappointment, because two young peacocks pecking

at a rubbish dump?

Because, the child says, confidently. Be cause.

Of course. East.

Of course, then, myself, with gloves left at home,

knuckles bloodless and greed eyed.

Know fragility's needed, is what makes us whole.

I missed this lightness. Who had it when I didn't?

A fire hydrant's red's

the exact brightness. At Tempelhofer Feld,

black dogs beside crows. In my old life we made a lot

and it took so much to pull apart; makeshift gardens

grown and changed, bare twigs stuck up like

hair, and now even in winter couples perch

on the edge of wooden boxes, calling out hallo

and smiling at strangers. My fingers form warmth slowly

out of coatpockets. Again I see

that rogue loveliness in dirt. Let's put our feet down

flat, chart patterns in soil. Let's take pen,

work ink. Think a female Buck Mulligan,

think a cold charlatan, think a warm-nighted man.

Think I'll make makers before meeting mine.