My babies were born in the South, now we are all packed in a van,
inching along the M5. Northbound.
Our house packed in boxes; half neatly labelled,
half thrown in anyhow. Nuts and bolts rolling free in the bottom,
reassembling furniture promises to be interesting.
My babies sleep amongst favourite toys,
unaware of their shift in gravity, this homecoming,
their roots are unearthed, about to be re-potted.
A lorry is on the hard shoulder. Cab ablaze.
As we crawl past this moment is seared into my memory:
We pass and race away homewards, while behind us the road is closed.