The cat with his pink, velcro tongue
Teases himself clean, oblivious to me.

A child’s hand picks, turns, fits
Together a jigsaw fairytale.

My grandfather takes his paring knife,
The one that smoothes sawn wounds,

And makes the skin of an apple
a silk spiral whose falling edges curl.

The cold light of wonder shivers
Along my spine, seeps into my hair.

Words by Margaret Morgan.