30 APRIL 1988, Page 37

To my seven-year-old son

You come like anger, harsh-propelled, Too large, too close, too loud, too rough. I think I should reach out to hold Your long, hard limbs which cannot mould. I don't make time, or space, enough.

You sense no lack, too tight self-bound, Colliding with another day.

You snort, poise jam-jars on your fork, Dismember thoughts to tense-clowned talk. I nod, and don't hear what you say.

Moon-like and orbit-dragged, you know Me as your dark-pulsed planet still, And arc, free-whirling in your world Because what held you once enfuried Gives you a strength beyond your will.

Heather Fussell