daughter poem

little gate was reached at last
but i cannot read you now
passing through huddled and ugly walls
when i was broke in london
do you remember
brother, i am fire
like him whose spirit in the blaze of noon
do not grieve that it is over
i loved a woman
among the smoke and fog of a december afternoon
a blue-black nubian plucking oranges
all my love for my sweet
against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree
to be able to see every side of every question