Euch, sick and aching today. Still, the first lines of this poem buzzed round my head all day as I lay in bed, and I've hacked out something to follow them.

Vanishing point

Perhaps it’s fitting

I put my faith in small things

having so little:

the bars of my cell

phone, calling to tell

you I’m far from home

and floating

into the telescopic future

where the sky threatens to fall,

and every story ends with a brick wall.

in the face. Still, we can shrink

to the size of dust motes, sink

to a dreaming size, drift as

invisible atoms, swarm into chambers.

disembodied voices tell me

we can split

clean in half

without breaking

god’s heart.

I doubt it, yet I’m willing

to follow my two year old

son, as he tips, and trips

over his own feet, not watching

where he’s going, fixed only

on the brightest thing

in his immediate surrounds.

There he goes

again, face

in the dirt, and me chasing him,

forever, pinning

hope

on his open mouth and crossing

my fingers the last trip

lands softly