Give me again
a gentle brown eye
and a mind of soft things
solemnity,
a grave purity
Joy sloshed around in his boots
(he left it twinkling on the garden path like a slug- trail in April)
It glistened in his whistle
on his books
his pen
glasses.
Joy was also in the cotton sun
spilt by Morning
when she tip- toed in
to peer
over his shoulder and watch his fingers.
Joy did not often send him giddy
but sometimes it would leap inside him
like a trout and he would do the tea-towel jig
and dance with me on his feet
mischa jones 