This is our room.  Come in.

It’s too small: an Edwardian

playroom.  Light, though,

with windows to the garden.

Shall I open a window?

Penny, Penny, smiling

and trembling all the day,

you breathe too fast that’s why

you often faint away.

We try and make you walk

because you never walk,

Penny, heavy-girl Penny

needs proper legs not stalks.

Lanky Andrew knows

he shouldn’t fiddle there:

there?  Nothing was once

an echolelic stare.

Woman’s Own, Andy?

Dance like a puppet

to the unstrung echo

of a brassière, Randy, the poppet.

Nicky, the darling grins

if you praise his Lego tower,

chirrups when he’s tickled, shrieks

when he’s under the shower.

Chinese Nicky, are you happy

when you’re happy, was it best

to be merrily selfish

from the time your self went west?

Bernard’s a lad who loves

to play at cars: thin

arm highway: Vrrmm: halt

at a black, chinchopper chin.

So fastidious, dapperly

jumps like a spring.  Mad

boy, Bernard!  Didn’t you talk

to your mother in Trinidad?

This is their room.  Come in.

It’s too small: an Edwardian

Playroom. Light, though,

With windows to the garden.

Shall I open a window?

            *

Tim, fringed with light,

a choice of places: stands.

Sits: calves tight

to the floor, flickering hands.

Or, sliding the window,

skips behind the shed

to his own flagstone: where Tim

sits, bobbing his head.

Come now, Tim, you’ve often

done jigsaws: try!

Pieces served to a fleeting

hand and teetering eye.

Smile across the table

for doing it?  Stern,

tremulous twelve-years,

piggy-back, high?  Burn

the light with your smiles, Tim,

the air with chuckling, till,

refused a ride forever

you will let fly, you will

chuck around  (Time, whose spinning

Limbs grind to a sad,

Panting gaze, we are sure

Is neither stupid nor mad).

            *

To spin, quietly, some thing,

or the ball behind the shed,

on, and in, is to pin

his bevel-eyes and head

to their own rocking,

tick…tock…or the ball

spins on earth to be thrown

at the same tree to fall

again to its same spinning.

tick…tock…or we swing

Tim up, back and ever

the teacher of time who sings

like a stream, over and there,

under leaves, netted by slim

traces of the sun by which

we are trying to see you, Tim.

            *

Water.  The filling of mug

from bottle means ship

the stuff from mug to bottle

through a funnel or it will slip

your fingers.  Good.  We advance,

we advance.  Sunlight leaks

through walls along a wire:

switch it off?  I speak with words, Tim, to close

door, dry hands,

fetch sweets: he does.

We hope the smile that stands

at the window wires up

sunshine to make man.

Look at me, Tim.  The smile,

still dripping, closes like a fan;

eyes withdraw from the light,

swivel, turn askance

into darkness, intelligent

of time.  We advance, we advance?

            *

One step forward is two

steps back.  Tim, walk properly.

A hopscotch homewards

from the shops, spindly

with fear.  Watch.  Magnets

harness the poles as words

do living.  Games.  South

to south is northwards backwards.

Bricks.  Support the stair

behind.  Colours.  Brown

goes with brown.  Drawing.

A circle  must be round.

Words.  Say after me.

NYAA!  Bones flaying

knock bricks flying

through the window.  Shsh.  Eyes

crack sunlight to squinny

through fractured glass

and toys to the dark spinny

where spindleshank Tim swings:

tick…tock…Look:

Sunlight is broken under leaves.

Words, Tim, patch

it whole.  But, what

is our mind’s end if not

to smash the light of words,

to squint right through the slots

we make for time and swing

into dark, O Tim, you gently

spinning freckled thing?

            *

Racing the path to the garden,

on your marks, get set,

ready steady go!

With a ride for reward or you fret,

Tim, ups-a-daisy so you flash

the light from your eyes to mine,

from teeth which crackle with the chuckles

that are speech, Tim, your signs!

Soft.  Fondness for me now.

The message, I will be missed,

in cheeks, crimped with joy,

turned wistfully to be kissed.

What about Tim the menial?

Come and clear the plates,

Go and fetch the sweets:

the smile, we hope, waits

at the cupboard to pluck ‘please’

from sunshine.  It does.  We advance.

I ask:  all gain without loss?

A single please is a chance

for servitude, no hope

of light in words to sting

through to their own wordless

end.  Darkness swings,

Tim, in the wake of the sun.

Come.  A choice of places

stands at the window, turns

away with sunlight on his face.

            *

This is our room.  Come in.

It’s too small: an Edwardian

playroom.  Light, though,

with windows to the garden.

Shall I open a window?

Bernard’s a lad who loves

to play at cars: thin

arm highway: Vrrmm: halt

at a black, chinchopper chin.

So fastidious, dapperly

jumps like a spring.  Mad

boy, Bernard!  Didn’t you talk

to your mother in Trinidad?

Nicky, the darling grins

if you praise his Lego tower,

chirrups when he’s tickled, shrieks

when he’s under the shower.

Chinese Nicky, are you happy

when you’re happy, was it best

to be merrily selfish

from the time your self went west?

Tim’s the one the sun

gives black hair shining speckles;

his limbs are long, pale skin

come out in tiny freckles.

Tim is mournfully jealous

of Nicky’s new spinning top:

come along, sit in your chair

and we’ll get you a lollipop.

Lanky Andrew knows

he shouldn’t fiddle there:

there?  Nothing was once

an echolelic stare.

Woman’s Own, Andy?

Dance like a puppet

to the unstrung echo

of a brassiere, Randy, the poppet.

Penny, Penny, smiling

and trembling all the day,

you breathe too fast that’s why

you often faint away.

We try and make you walk

because you never walk,

Penny, heavy-girl Penny

needs proper legs not stalks.

This is their room.  Come in.

It’s too small: an Edwardian

playroom.  Light, though,

with windows to the garden.

Shall I open a window?