I have five sons, the old man boasted,
his eyes glowing with delight, but
the woman who interrupted his reverie
with a long-suffering and drawn-out
sigh read him a gentle lecture,
only two are yours, you doting fool.
Now tell the truth.
True, he replied, only two are my natural
sons but the other three are an equal source
of delight. I think of them as an infrangible unity.
I know they are my sons, the warmth and spirit
of their greeting melts my heart; when they are
clasped to my bosom with no pretence and
nothing but clear sentiment in their eyes.
The woman’s eye’s misted, she did not cry
easily, but she cried for the bona fide belief
the old man expressed so succinctly. Yes,
she admitted, there is no pretence.
© I.D. Carswell
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