My Son

It was easier in those power ranger, transformer years. Days were about the school lessons he loved, games at reccess, a birthday party. Tears came with knee scrapes and the one day he and his best friend fought over who would be Optimus Prime. A momentary cuddle would cure him, the wrong quickly forgotten by morning.

Suddenly, his head is almost level with mine and words don't flow between us. His few step behinds have become strides ahead and nights in are buffered by a series cookie-cut TV programmes. Secrets weigh heavy between us as his days stay locked behind closed lips and I wish I could hold him again.

Photo by Becky Taylor; Story by Heather Taylor

Winter Sky

A grey canope protects hard earth
from the rush of sun, lets it sleep
6 months more before spring's crude
conquering, shoots thrusting through soil
spreading across black dirt to choke it.

For now, it's suspended in white
ice fingers creeping to the muted sun
a forest of empty banches standing silent
to dream of summer breezes through the green
lush of new spring coats.

Photo by Becky Taylor; Poetry by Heather Taylor

Betsy

They called her Betsy - a white Chevy that took them from school to jobs to grocery shops when it was too cold to walk. In the summer, she'd be the car they crammed into; 6 siblings, 2 parents and a dog. Their dad kept to empty backroads, the dust of the hard dirt pouring through the windows as they traversed the rollercoaster of hills. He called them shortcuts as he tore down lanes rarely travelled and it seemed to be hours longer then any highways they could take.

Years later, Besty passed through children to grandchildren, a car fit only for the farm. There we did donuts in empty fields raising dust like our grandfather. Our feet tucked up on torn seats, we stared down at the absent floor of the car to the ground rushing below. She lasted one more summer, a child's plaything, before becoming a set of spare parts, a rusted frame.

Photo by Becky Taylor; Story by Heather Taylor