Child

For Dylan Thomas

He passes through different rooms

Each with its own quality of light

He burns small sticks.  

He waddles through glorious muck

His big black boots

turning sideways as they will.

He thinks he has killed time.

On the edge of paradise he throws stones at tins.

And pushes his tongue through a broken smile.

Reviews

[Emily B]

I very much admire your voice and your style.