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.