Análisis poético

to my nine year old self helen dunmore You must forgive me. Don't look so surprised, perplexed , and eager to be gone balancing on your hands or on the tightrope You would rather run than walk, rather climb than run rather leap from a height than anything.

I have spoiled this body we once shared. Look at the scars, and watch the way I move, careful of a bad back or a bruised foot. Do you remember how, three minutes after waking we'd jump straight out of the ground floor window into the summer morning

That dream we had, no doubt it's as fresh in your mind as the white paper to write it on. We made a start, but something else came up - a baby vole, or a bag of sherbet lemons - and besides that summer of ambition created an ice-lolly factory, a wasp trap and a den by a cesspit

I'd like to say we could be friends but the truth is we have nothing in common beyond a few shared years. I won't keep you then. Time to pick rosehips for tuppence a pound, time to hide down scared lanes from men in cars after girl-children

or to lunge out over the water on the rope that swings from that tree long buried in housing - But no, I shan't cloud your morning. God knows I have fears enough for us both -

I leave you in an ecstasy of concentration slowly peeling a ripe scab from your knee to taste it on your tongue.