and hasty departure, with little food or water, sodden feet,
calluses, sores, cold,
and Mum crying softly so as not to wake your little sister
who is teething,
and Dad cursing the foul weather because he doesn’t know
what else to blame,
and shared misery binding the glue that knits your skin together,
it has worn so thin,
and your six year old self not moaning because in every face
you see the breaking point,
and your six year old heart growing an extra layer of hardness
in all the wrong places.
in a world narrowed down to a distant alien horizon
on a never-ending road.