Poetic Seed
My daddy read poems in a
monotone,
From number five of the red
Children’s Hour.
I can still hear his voice, a
steady drone,
But that’s the start of my
poetic power.
He read The Butter Bean Tent, a
sweet bower.
And The Cremation of Sam McGee,
Five Hundred Hats with Cubbins
up the tower,
The Family Dragon, I would like
to see.
What wonder as I sat on Daddy’s
knee!
We didn’t know a poet, I would
be.
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