On Receiving Our Son's
First Record of Achievement
Another's eye has watched our son
And seen what we have seen,
Observing with a practitioner's precision
The rough beauty of a little human being.
Summer reaches its zenith
And beneath salt-scorched foliage
Small ceremonies are enacted
To parental applause.
Another term ends,
The big children depart.
The teachers can be themselves again,
For a whole August reclaim their days.
Then Autumn and more children,
And they must gird themselves against repetition,
See children as their parents see them -
New kids, but that same kind gaze.