A pair of blackbirds br warring in the roses, br one or two poppies br br losing their heads, br the trampled lawn br a battlefield of dolls. br br Branch by pruned branch, br a child has climbed br the family tree br br to queen it over us: br we groundlings search br the flowering cherry br br till we find her face, br its pale prerogative br to rule our hearts. br br Sir Walter Raleigh br trails his comforter br about the muddy garden, br br a full-length Hilliard br in miniature hose br and padded pants. br br How rakishly upturned br his fine moustache br of oxtail soup, br br foreshadowing, perhaps, br some future time br of altered favour, br br stuck in the high chair br like a pillory, features br pelted with food. br br So many expeditions br to learn the history br of this little world: br br I watch him grub br in the vegetable patch br and ponder the potato br br in its natural state br for the very first time, br or found a settlement br br of leaves and sticks, br cleverly protected br by a circle of stones. br br But where on earth br did he manage to find br that cigarette end? br br Rain and wind. br The day disintegrates. br I observe the lengthy br br inquisition of a worm br then go indoors to face br a scattered armada br br of picture hooks br on the dining room floor, br the remains of a ruff br br on my glass of beer, br Sylvia Plath's Ariel br drowned in the bath. br br Washing hair, I kneel br to supervise a second rinse br and act the courtier: br br tiny seed pearls, br tingling into sight, br confer a kind of majesty. br br And I am author br of this toga'd tribune br on my aproned lap, br br who plays his part br to an audience of two, br repeating my words.