You who look out from the window of your room
at shades of sky, and feel impelled to paint them,
or pastel down the magic of the world
on sketch-book sheets, it seems that you are filled
yourself, with a sense of the open human field . . .
for you are receptive to the light that falls
brokenly, through jobs and sports and music,
through learning of the past, and listening
in speech and essay to the intent of words:
but sharper than all these, the adult shock
you’ve met, electrification and the switch-off . . .
and meanwhile there is the sense of enrichment
in those who know you, and the letting-go
with a pain, on parents’ part, that is pure honour . . .
so on an arbitrarily chosen day
full social rights join with nature’s abundance
to formulate the hidden gifts of light . . .
and now you step into the brilliant spectrum.