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.

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