she hoped that Jack would come up the stairs and hold her
she had heard him moving, swift on his stick
and then he wobbled loosely into the room,
the floor still churning, a livid sea.
poor old house clattering again – and the bricks
once again trembling out of her
and landing in wet piles amongst the hydrangeas.
she said: ‘I hoped that he, Jack, would come up the stairs and hold me.’
he’d passed her – over by the dressing table,
crouched under the jiggle of her jars
all on the march –
and put his arms around the grandfather clock,
bent his head towards its white face,
shushing away a rolling disappointment.