#poem #poetry #amriting #sketchbook parents

the hand still offers the flat-palm grass
to the nervous pony behind the wire

the eyes still shine with delight
at tinned pears and tinned milk on sunday

the voice can clearly be heard - and the phrasing -
when I find myself saying what I swore I never would


my son asks if he allowed to say 'pissing it down'
I tell him I'll allow persisting

we are both soaked

I am frozen from mid thigh to knee cap
by the run off from my coat

but we soon dry

my son asks if he is allowed to say 'fuck'
only when standing on lego I say