They sit together,

Heads bending close

Toes touching in parallel lines

Through tiny holes

In their faded socks.

Mother calls from

A faraway corner, her

Kettles and pots whistling

At boiling point.

She pulls a face, the

Soft corners of her mouth

Pulled down and tugs

His shirt- she must see

That they aren't late.

Someday, he'll thank her

But for now, he scowls too.

Happy in her grownupness,

She holds on to his arm

Though neither is really sure

Who the adult is, and they

Walk. Slowly. Past the rows

Of neatly boxed houses and

Flower-pot plants, until

They reach home and Mother's

Anxiously loving voice.

And there, all nine of them

Huddle together around teacups

Of temporary peace.

The day before it fell.

A/N: this is still very much a "work in progress". The end especially, will have to change, and so I appreciate all help. Or flaming.