Milk Tooth As an acorn loosens in its cup, and drops as a dewdrop shines for half a morning and is gone, so this shooting star has fallen, tiny, almost, as the diamond on his mother’s finger, winkling stealthily beneath the fretless pillow. Six years on she is still mesmerised – his sleeping, his perfection. There! Hard-kerneled in a thick fold of tissue bloodless as a knubbled pearl for secret keeping in the box of precious things to be rediscovered in the cotton wool of winter. Now, tonight, she signs the turning of his spring with a bright new coin. Ian Chamberlain
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