For Donald Davie The Flight Path

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
...