– Joseph Simington

this new night is cold
even though summer has
held my heart for weeks, scent
of cool rain not
thunderstorm. i’m thinking
of my mum
her herb garden behind
dad’s portable cabin, she grows
some kind of love there.
i want to know her, i could listen
twin souls ache like
fingers sunk in wet, black dirt
the vine
on her wrist
the red, sunk mud on her gumboots,
i would take her feet from boot to earth,
collage a poem from the footprints.