(b) Dylan Poem by Francis Curran

Sometimes the benevolence of the sun sets you free
Outside the house to roam within my comfort zone.
Your mother doesn't know yet (you know what she's like)
And I not far behind in her bothering.

A glimpse through the mesh of the smudged net curtains
Spots your sprouting bones off wobbling on the bike
That you love so much; and how I duck as you look up
To catch the chance to unfold your boundary.

I grimace for the near squeezing of dark and improbable
Thoughts, the mad tearing around for your whereabouts.
Not far off, there is to come the scorn of being late,
Both your mother's barrels blaring down between my eyes.

She scrubs and scours the grimy streets
Off your dry skin that she devotionally chokes
With powder and cream, and inhales you
With her Siamese face snuggled on your neck.

Winding down and tucking you in
Brings me kissing on a dreaming head,
You threat to turn over as I peck on the cheek,
That cherub of a smile belies the devil in your day.

The petulant swagger and the brag and the boast
Of a glorious goal weaved through a forest of hacking legs,
Your squabbling mates outside your school,
Bellowing that it bounced off the shin.