Wednesday, 13 March 2013


Nose pressed to windowpane, the dog, too, tired of rain. I blow up a balloon. She sniffs it, runs to a corner, talks to herself in her peculiar squeaky language. She approaches the balloon again, pats it carefully, watches as it rises off the floor and settles. Ears pricked, she continues to talk to herself, trawling past memories.

this winter
the way she lifts the balloon
by the tie


Margaret Beverland

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