Danny is two at Hathersage
when he first sees
the god in the water.
I scoop and he drinks
sweet as a poddy calf.
There should be bread
and petals here too.
I need to make and
unmake something around
the grace of this tableau,
filling and running
from the rivulet
of my lifeline.
How easy it should be
to let go of this
small, insistent, slurping vessel,
give him his own life in water.
There is something savage here
as I cup the colour of nothing
to his chin.