DriftAmy Unsworthfor my sons The clock falls behind, an hour then two, right for someplace off the coast where the sun is still setting. This is the way of the glacier, the impossible movement shaping mountains, the manner of the hour hand— imperceptible to the eye. This, the way of scars, the cut closing cell by cell to bridge the wound, of a child growing constrained in the sea of the womb. Like the slow drift of the continents-- the subtle shifts, the slight tremors rending root and rock— without me, you step forward into the world. Amy Unsworth |