Summer 1981 • Vol. III No. 3 Contemporary English and Irish Poetry |

At Seven a Son

In cold weather on a garden swing, his legs in wellingtons rising over the winter rose trees he sits serenely smiling like a Thai his coat open, his gloves sewn to the flapping sleeves his thin knees working with his arms folded about the metal struts as he flies up (his hair like long black leaves) he lies back freely astonished in sunshine as serious as a stranger he is a bird in his own thought.

Already have an account? Login

Join KR for even more to read.

Register for a free account to read five free pieces a month from our current issue and digital archive.
Register for Free and Read This Piece



Or become a subscriber today and get complete, immediate access to our digital archives at every subscription level.

Read More

Subscribe

Your free registration with Kenyon review incudes access to exclusive content, early access to program registration, and more.

Donate

With your support, we’ll continue 
to cultivate talent and publish extraordinary literature from diverse voices around the world.