In My Two Small Fists
in that bright blue summer
I used to gather
daisies for my father
speedwell for my mother
with buttercups
and prickly heather
cowrie shells
and a seagull’s feather
treasures in each fist
all squashed together
daisies for my father
speedwell for my mother
(that’s how I see it
but I don’t know
if it really happened
sixty years ago
but my memories shine
and their light seems true
and so do the daisies
and speedwell too)
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