Beneath luminous mountains
runs the black autobahn. It is dawn
and I am going along with my right hand on the steering wheel
and my left reached back
to hold my daughter’s hand.
She is sitting still, staring through her dark window
looking out for the year ahead,
thinking of what has just been,
of what I don’t know – I can’t see her face.
The family car is quiet
in haste towards the morning,
we are hundreds of miles from home
it’s going to be a long day.
In my hand my daughter’s fingers feel warm
and soft as flowers
patient with their love for me, their tolerance.
Momentarily they stir with intelligence
and muscle and beetle about
then they come back to me
The mountains are behind us now
and we are driving down an ash-coloured valley.
My daughter’s hand in mine
nothing being said
only our fingers
playing out sonnets of roses and sunshine,
teasing out of the years to come
something like sense, our shared undertaking.
Sense and fellowship in hand-holding,
nothing being said,
everything in place.