The light in shards on the Thames,
driftwood and debris and something else
ahead, my old home, with its dim passageway
and rattling sashes, the garden cemented
and bricked in with time
stuck in a loop
until oneday a surge of emotion
had broken free and the river had risen up
and raced towards the sea,
upending trees, killing people,
anything that thought it could just stop
where it was.

It continues in her consciousness, the thought that a person will find out who they are. She tries to draw out the bony little child from the eyes reflected back at her, risk seeing beyond the glass into that draughty attic where they store the past.