Saturday, 9 February 2013

St John's Playground

My son, my eldest son, spins round
in a sunshine-yellow teacup meant
primarily for the under-fives, his stiltish legs
protruding like a bobtail squid’s,
his unstyled hair exploding from his head
which once was cradlecapped;
and with every revolution his smile broadens
as if the hedgerowed s-bend ahead of him
has branched into a sixteen-lane freeway
of life-chance choices, each one
signified in Esperanto, of which,
at an age about the same as my son is now,
I learnt the rudiments by postal lessons
from an old boy in Abinger Hammer.

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