The miniatures we reproduced from saliva,

blood and juice once served to hold us as a glue,

called a truce on warring troops and propped us up

until the group had borne enough; the bairns

were insubordinate or simply grown too tall for us –

their skins sloughed while ours merely sag and drop.

Now those we foster and adopt, the cuckoo crop,

are practising the precipice, the clock ticks off

our wedding list. It’s this readiness to share

the nest that makes you so extraordinary -

and yes, of course, I’m up again for forgery