Leaps
it’s spring; you know the drill.
the heater roars its final bursts of heat,
the leaves are brown and brittle.
saturday morning still, as the air
around us, we wait inside with baited
breath whilst things outside us grow.
oversized jumpers coat our frames
like moss, and i find lost cinema stubbs
down the back of the sofa. you itch.
we’ve got a quota, a running total of hours
spent seething under damp ceilings waiting
for the world to wake. counting down each hour
until it’s time to walk the streets of Salford
without reason. the squirrels drop their nuts
and run; gasping into a new season.
