Mark Jarman

The children are hiding among the raspberry canes. They look big to one another, the garden small. Already in their mouths this soft fruit That lasts so briefly in the supermarket Tastes like the past. The gritty wall, Behind the veil of leaves, is hollow. There are yellow wasps inside it. The children know. They know the wall is hard, although it hums. They know a lot and will not forget it soon. When did we forget? But we were never Children, never found where they were hiding And hid with them, never followed The wasp down into its nest With a fingertip that still tingles. We lie in bed at night, thinking about The future, always the future, always forgetting That it will be the past, hard and hollow, Veiled and humming, soon enough.

To lie in your child’s bed when she is gone Is calming as anything I know. To fall Asleep, her books arranged above your head, Is to admit that you have never been So tired, so enchanted by the spell Of your grown body. To feel small instead Of blocking out the light, to feel alone, Not knowing what you should or shouldn’t feel, Is to find out, no matter what you’ve said About the cramped escapes and obstacles You plan and face and have to call the world, That there remain these places, occupied By children, yours if lucky, like the girl Who finds you here and lies down by your side.