Ground in the Victorian lock, stiff, <br />With difficulty screwed open, <br />To admit me to the seven mossed stairs <br />And the badly kept garden. <br /> <br />Who runs to me in memory <br />Through flowers destroyed by no love <br /> <br />But the child with brown hair and eyes, <br />Smudged all over with toffee? <br /> <br />I lick his cheeks. I bounce him in air. <br />Two bounces, he disappears. <br /> <br />Fifteen years later, he redescends, <br />Not as a postponed child, but a letter <br />Asking me for his father who now possesses <br />No garden, no home, not even any key.<br /><br />Dom Moraes<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/key-14/
