Ruptures

The sweet foam teeth spilled beneath the catkins. The Valentine's bear that moulders by the train tracks, stubbornly clutching its sodden satin heart. The empty house with the lush monstera at the bedroom window. The half-glimpse through the carriage window of the Alsatian on the balcony, sprawled dead or sleeping on a single sheet of card. Two shoes among the roadside crocuses, an immaculate white trainer and an oyster silk stiletto. These are the ruptures, the moments when some secret world forgets to fasten its flies and we are flashed by the hinterland where magic and madness root.

I think of these moments on this pretty, coy Sunday as I breathe in sandalwood and skunk and listen to the children chant their antic rhymes. Snout is in the music room conjuring booming natal grooves and Spatchcock limbers up in her velour tracksuit, ready to get out in the tentative sun and start some shit. I am eating Easter eggs and drinking advocaat on ice. There is still some time to go before the Season starts with Eurovision and I need something to keep me in trouble.

An empty nappy on the baby swings. A trail of moths from the neighbour's door. Bacon on the coping stones of the playground wall. Flesh-coloured tights in the willow tree. My own little ruptures. I'll have to wait until it's dark. The monkey can't stand the sight of spring.