It was his voice that crossed the
fringe of sleep
Cheerful, routine, a flight of stairs away;
And though the meadow grass is not so high,
Again we go, my hand curled up in his,
To look for larks’ nests, teasels and moon-daisies.
Ahead of me along the sea-wall dip
His friendly back and jaunty shrimping-net,
While my fist grips a spade to stem the tide.
I ride his knees again; again he trims
My wayward fingernails and stamps his foot
To simulate the fall of each huge paring.
The armchair back encurves his silver head;
His crimson slippers stretch towards the fire
That he has built to last until the morning.
by Damaris West
Read the story behind this poem
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