Found in Childhood
She, aged seven, is trying
to play with my daughter, her
exact contemporary.
Ox-eye daisies gaze at the electric
blue sky. Eyebrights witness
butterflies too drunk ever
to get their pilot’s licence.
Her statuesque face is subservient
to her ears. Fingers
stretch in anticipation
of futures constantly flowering
into presents. I want
to embrace her, to spit
in the dust like Christ
and anoint her with the paste,
letting in the light.
Swallows dip in flight
as if skimming milk;
our dog bounds
over the lawn, sight as keen
as a focused camera;
the visitor ponders
and labours on tentatively.
All I can think of is
the Birmingham Millais;
two girls near Winchelsea;
a clearing shower;
achingly bright colours
and a double rainbow;
a tortoiseshell on a clock
that would never be marvelled at;
nearby, delicate flowers.
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