In a caravan,
just around the corner,
your front door step — a crate —
avoid the broken bit, still slip.
Here the rats migrate.

Still working, Far North,
stooped like a magpie
bent on finding platinum
to solidify
a family that disintegrates.

You’re in a house bus,
not big enough
for the kids.
It wasn’t five years ago
but dreams change.

Mum creates a lawn,
wipes the surfaces
again.
Always trying to get something
to come up clean.