|What is that--precious jar of unguent,|
ambrosia gone soft and dangerous,
clay cradling beads of gold to soothe the sea
when the storms rise and the selkies toss?
Perhaps it is a gift for my youngest child,
who is 14 today. Happy birthday!
|Pensive, dreaming of landscapes we do not know.|
|Gallery frolic and caw.|
|He held my hand. Was both fearsome and sweet.|
|Riot of forms... the house gallery.|
|When I was Alice,|
I fell into the well of his eye.
Took me years to climb back up
and crawl out into the light.
|Caught, looking up almost in surprise.|
Find a pierced stone and look through it.
You might find out what he sees.
|Another glimpse of Meri Wells and Clive Hicks-Jenkins,|
with Peter Wakelin on the grass.
This time Clive is smiling.
And I did not say, "Wensleydale."
I promise you that.