My son is like me:
when I'm not looking, he snakes
through the grass and bushy-tails
up the alder to look out

with wing eyes – he shouts
to the wind where he will go:
far beyond the neighbours
across borders and sunken ships

to the bears of Europe
Bern, Berlin, mad Madrid
Mistress Marseille and the sea
of Seattle, to watch the sun

rise in the large world
outside the wall around our garden
with the squeaky gate
which, opened carefully

gives a chink of a view