They bring their children now 
to see us, over the rebuilt bridges. 
Something delicate, potent, in the smell 
of a child’s skin, his hair, 
transcends time and reason.

There is joy as well as hurt, 
when he tires of our game, 
in his well-aimed handful of toys.
It is a phase. There were always phases, 
not to be talked about.

A son's first graffito, saying
little, but significant of much.
The mass of motorbikes, summonses; 
rebellion pushing the clock past midnight; 
callers in cars and quiet conversations.

Posters of Paul and John, guardant
over a daughter's bed, their music 
closeting her away for hours, 
all you need is love pounding the walls.
Horses; that cavalletti of puberty.

Granddad, the children say, come 
into the garden and play — and Grandma.
We count slowly up to ten, then 
set out and search of them, leave 
their favorite places until last,

find precisely what it is we seek.
Asleep now in his mother's warmth,
‘Little black Sambo’ fallen to the floor,
they carry him into the car and are 
gone with the sun, over safe bridges.

We bring the house to order, replace 
the ornaments, make another pot of tea, 
and know that we shall ache all week 
from games we played far less 
for their sake than for our own.