Close to home

Cocooned away from social constructs

Here my worth is not what I earn

Here my worth is being part of a tribe.

 

Contributing to the circle.

Crouching in dirt, knees bent

Circled by flames

Living out this very moment.

 

Dens, long grasses, lego houses, fallen leaves,

Boiled broth and hunting for beasts.

Resting on damp tree stumps

Moss growing to the North.

 

No future to fret

No past to drag 

Just me 

In my tribe.

 

One of us tip taps away upstairs

Working his way 

Across the digital airwaves

Bringing home the bacon.

 

But I, mother, sit with our young 

Under stitched together threads

Scattering voices amongst a herd of soft toys

Watching torch light dash across our back lit den

 

And I have my chance

To rest 

To feel

A lockdown freedom to warm by the fire.