IV.
We spy on her constantly,
lest she fly
and this too falls apart,
this omen of sorts
where meanings of home and growth
crystallise
in this strange space
between landing and goodbye
amidst the dire pandemic
news reports
and what a dove and her egg
can symbolise.
The mundane can be charged
with so much hope.
She clutches at her straws
as I clutch at mine
and we’re both doing what
needs to be done;
setting up a home is also
dismantling
another in some other space
and time,
till the final stop is
given, or won
at the very end of all the
travelling.
But for now the egg’s a
straw and helps to cope.
