Fri, 06 May 2016
My son rides high upon my shoulders...
hacking our way through jungle. In reality –
the stubble of a wheat crop; both taller
than we dreamed we could ever be.
He somersaults over furrows
like an acrobatic clown – winnowing
west towards the moor – misty,
in the mid-morning haze.
Hungry to learn, I could teach
him many things; that the world
is round. That the sun rises in the east
and sets in the west
yet, make the grade, and wherever
he is, he will be right there at the top;
this boy who loves trampolines
and vanilla ice-cream...
stomping in puddles – damselflies,
dandelions, and surprises. You know
he’s not a herd of stampeding stallions,
but that he is, if he thinks he is.