Wednesday, 8 September 2010

Youngblood

On tiptoes
discerning as you do
a white stallion’s head
in the complex patterns of the Wilton on the landing
you ascertain all manner of outlines
as if it’s Midsummer’s Eve
when every patch of cumulus resembles
a baby sitting up by itself for the very first time
on a lawn of buttercups and daisies
in the middle of the marsh where longhorn cattle masticate
as you fashion an ending
to the days of having friends from junior school
round to play before tea.

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