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Poem	six...six...why only yesterday it seems that fist shot out that one eye winked...and yet now that this day's arrived it really is as if six years have blinked - and you've sprung through a thousand instant snaps into this boy whose tongue can't help but say thought not thinked who's no longer to be fed with ideas any more than food will pick and choose as he wishes will draw with his fingers inked will behave as a baby still when it suits his own deep schemes whose eyes look out on the world with a sense that six is wise and there's nothing that can't be grasped if time and mood are right and want and reward are linked and truth (however grown up) doesn't do the dirty on instinct
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