Birmingham City Council

Freya and the Ba'tn'bah by Gregory Leadbetter

The clocks have just gone back
and you’re standing on the sill
of your nursery window, my hands holding
you steady. We’re watching the sun
on the white walls of the house,
the last of the apples that have fallen.
I motion to the sky and then

wings patter the window, take hold
and open, so close to our faces,
their dust soaked black with a summer-full
of light. You say the word for
butterfly, eyes wide, finger-tip
at the glass, seeing so deeply
you trip into the seen –
feel the sun on your wings