Recollection: frail Father place the nocturne before you.
Leave eyes molten and touch my hand, I wish to feel the
old brown skin with its cracks and festerments.
Swan-walk, the rifle nestling beneath your winter coat;
enough time to crack a few chestnuts and send running the
young boys who quietly fish. This silence you can beat,
knock the hell from it and bring this remoteness back to
its place beside the High Street. Show me the bird for killing;
will it be fat and worth eating or should I not ask until it is
dead? Over at the green cricket - the barb catches wool and pulls
me back - the green burns. It is not only chestnuts on the
floor, there are feathers with dry blood upon the quill, so fill
the bags with more and we will clean the leaves and droppings.
After which we shall go and watch the Sunday game, Father is
walking with a large shadow - onward to the refreshment hut.
The clean whites are attractive by the side of wrought tables,
we could sit and drink tea. These crates of empty bottles are
not so good as the trays of tea; you seem to like them Father
though they have no more juice, like the boy who drinks it.
Crease each stare do I, my eyes watch the red covered bottle.
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