One. Stand in a glass dolls house. Turn
the key and a musical box opens. 
Puppets in spiral – long days of grass. 

Two. Walk to the top of a hill, watch over 
those awoken by star lights. When we sing, 
we do not use words. 

Three. Hold tight on to the back of 
a minotaur; in the labyrinth we guard 
the source of our rivers. 

Four. Swimming lessons. Breathing 
practice for later life. Check 
the sea level at regular intervals. 

Five. Decide that the earliest memory is
a feeling. Someone passed it onto us
by accident. It still matters. 

Six. Find a safe place, give it a nickname
or at least get a colour to fit with
the things we tell ourselves.

Seven. Pull a curtain over the ruins of 
here. Convince ourselves: all we need 
is just round the corner. 

Eight. Travel by car, boat, bus; 
the motion sickness for changing 
our minds always at the last minute.

Nine. Count empty chairs at departure 
gates. Fold the rest of the day
in half then gift it to strangers. 

Ten. Arrivals happen when there is 
no luggage left to pick up. All forgiven 
out of necessity. 
 
Eleven. The railway platform keeps
changing numbers. Watch closely 
notice boards in an antechamber. 

Twelve. Rush out in yesterday’s clothes,
fill up the rooms in our heart
with what is to come. 

© Maria Stadnicka and Andrew Morrison, MMXXIII

published in International Times on 12th August 2023.