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Next Issue Peter Scupham at 85: a celebration Contributions by Anne Stevenson, Robert Wells, Peter Davidson, Lawrence Sail

This poem is taken from PN Review 88, Volume 19 Number 2, November - December 1992.

For Donald Davie The Flight Path Seamus Heaney

1.

The first fold first, then more foldovers drawn
Tighter and neater every time until
The whole of the paper got itself reduced
To a pleated square he'd take up by two corners
And hold like a promise he had the power to break
But never did.
              A dove rose in my breast
Whenever my father's hands came clean apart
With a paper boat between them, ark in air,
The lines of it as taut as a pegged tent:
High-sided, splayed, the little pyramid
At the centre of it every bit as hollow
As a part of me that sank because it knew
The whole thing would go soggy once you launched it.

2.
 
Equal and opposite, the part that lifts
Into those full-starred heavens that winter sees
...


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