Norman Nicholson
.
"I'm rising five," he said,
"Not four," and the little coils of hair
Un-clicked themselves upon his head.
His spectacles, brimfull of eyes to stare
At me and the meadow, reflected cones of light
Above his toffee-buckled cheeks. He'd been alive
Fifty-six months or perhaps a week more:
..........................................................................not four,
But rising five.
.
Around him in the field of spring
Bubbled and doubled; buds unbottoned; shoot
And stem shook out the creases from their frills,
And every tree was swilled with green.
It was the season after blossoming,
Before the forming of the fruit:
.......................................................not May,
But rising June.
.
.............................And in the sky
The dust dissected tangential light:
..............................................................not day,
But rising night;
.............................not now,
But rising soon.
.
The new buds push the old leaves from the bough.
We drop our youth behind us like a boy
Throwing away his toffee wrappers. We never see the flower,
But only the fruit in the flower; never the fruit,
But only the rot in the fruit. We look for the marrige bed
In the baby's cradle, we look for the grave in the bed:
..............................................................................................not living,
But rising dead.
