Sometimes, after tea, when my brothers and I
played in the garden, I sensed at the window
our parents’ faces, and knew that they were happy.

This made me want to orchestrate the play,
being the eldest, the impresario,
but still present a seeming spontaneity,

watchful in case the game flagged or a quarrel broke out.
It mattered somehow to put on a show
which proved we were that family I’d heard about:

where parents wash the tea things, talking quietly
and children play as they are meant to do —
under smiling eyes, under an elm tree.