Stuck around the mirror of our wardrobe are polaroids I took with Reu in Paris. 
It seems like an age ago we lived there, 
that my now articulate and boisterous boy 
was a babe in my arms. 

I gaze and reminisce - 
I imagine life in a few months, 
when this babe quickening in my womb 
is strong enough to hold his head up, oh
The dahlias are in season. 
Ruby-red, sun-gold, bloody lovely
I step on a floor laid sixty years ago, marvel at the poetry of stain and crack
We have thirty five chickens living in an upturned closet in our back room. 
I can hear them as I type, 
chirping noisily, scratching about, 
catching sunshine on their week old golden fuzz,

they were not planned - 
but acquired on a whim 
(because they needed a home)
it's a trial for us - in what will be 
an essential part of our business:
producing pastured chicken for eating
I am nearing thirty-eight weeks,
tomorrow Reu and I catch a short flight
to Sydney, for my sister's wedding
my doctor has cleared me to fly
but I am a little hesitant,
(of all the toddler and baggage juggling mostly)

then I remember soon
I'll be with my kin
and hugging them