Surface Tension

She plunges her hand through the surface,
breaks the tension which separates the summer air
heavy with the scent of roses and barbeques from
the underworld swirl of reed and weed and koi carp;
which separates this Sunday afternoon of ball games
and Wendy houses, of secateurs and weeding, from
all the days which follow, numberless, nameless, grey.

She grasps the small arm that floats towards her,
the fingers wafting like anemone fronds,
the nails, soft and pink, the size of sandshells.
She draws up her daughter, limply peaceful
as if in milk-sated sleep, through every parent’s dread
into a thunderstorm howl that shatters the day.