Waking

The little girl down by the lake?
Those things she's playing with,
that you never could see,
moving and moving them around?
Baking tins. A Kuggelhoff mould.
She's sitting in the sunshine
ignoring you and moving the
tins around, gently humming.
Quiet. Peaceful. In the sun.

She's not, you know. She's sitting
on a cold tiled floor, victorian tiles,
in a cold dark corridor, at the foot
of uncarpeted timber stairs,
and she's looking at the tins,
the tins that are dented,
the tins that just flew
down the hallway,
after her father,
and she's notthinking
about her mother running
out of the house
and she's notthinking
about her father running after her
and she's notthinking
what happens if
they don't ever come back.
No, she's notthinking these things, she's just thinking about how
the cakes can be baked
for christmas when the
tins are dented and
maybe it will be ok
and she sits on the floor,
and she moves the tins
from one hand to
the other, trying
to push the dents out
with her small fingers.
And she's notthinking
about anything else,
just about the cakes,
and the tins, and
she's notthinking about
her mother and her father
and how angry they were
and what if they never come back,
no she's notthinking about this, she's
just moving the tins around,
and humming a tune under her breath,
and sitting on the cold floor,
until she lands on that sunny shore.

For forty five years she's been
sitting there humming, and
moving those tins around
on the ground in front of her.
It's time
to bring her home.