She and her sister have been sent to get blackberries.
Their legs are scratched, cardigans snagged.

They've just discovered a rabbit – no head, no throat.
Their father says dumb beasts don't go to heaven.
Man has dominion over them.

This morning the Kiwi smell of polished shoes:
his black boots, their grandmother’s lace-ups,
two pairs of blue Mary-Janes.

That was their family, its hierarchy, spread out on the kitchen
    floor;
the shoe box containing two brushes for each colour -
a putting on and a taking off.
Each knowing what was expected of them.

She and her sister stand at the top, looking down.
They can see the sea, the lighthouse
and the salt-walled church.

She and her sister think what it would be like to jump -
long hair, brown dresses,
tumbling into the giant water.

This morning they sat in church,
heard the story of the pillar of salt
and how Lot lay with his daughters.

She and her sister became aware of a shuddering
along the pew, a straightening of spines,
a pinkening of their father’s ears.

Always they dread Sundays - the motherless day -
left to the will of God, the will of the wind.

It's their favourite story
though they argue over who should get the prince.
Sometimes they see the bear-skin hearth-rug
twitch as if it wants something back.
Out of the dwarf's bad-tempered beard
they are knitting socks for their father
full of hidden brambles and burrs.