Friday 18 June 2010

Growing

You’re not as tall as the peonies;
but you try tiptoes to smell them.

The sun I remember from childhood

gives more gold to your curls
than Kodacolor memories.

You’re ripening slowly today,
as I pass my external best,
onto you perhaps, 

and try to capture with persistent clicks,
your curious joy,
your surprise
when the edge of the flower bed fools you
onto a nappy padded bottom
and you consider crying,
giving up instead, 

a laugh.

Over the garden wall, fields bleed with poppies,
the hawthorn’s shadow lengthens
and the church clock begins its chime.

Your mimic mouth echoes the bells
but you’ve got no sense of time.

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