These mornings when he’s not rota’d on picket,
he spends the shift he would’ve spent in darkness
in the spare room, sawing, painting, making
a doll’s house. His wife, in secret moments,
sews bits and bobs of fabric
into dolls’ dresses: twists of foil
are jewellery, pages of old colouring books
wallpaper. It’s for their daughter to imagine
the stars into the sky above the roof.
