Between the pages of an old notebook I found a snapshot
Of my son hunched over the rocking-horse’s neck,
Stroking its dirty mane, its worn brown pelt,
With his four-year-old fingers.

How he loved that cheap beast!
For a couple of quid we hauled it
From the musty shadows of a junk shop,
Its rockers slightly out of beam,
The loose screws front and back making it rock off-centre.

How he rocked that long cold winter out!
Rocked the squalid room on its cowboy foundations.
Rocked until his cheeks glowed red from the electric heater.
Until his eyes drooped, tired and dazed from love’s capacity.