By Vona Groarke
My daughter, heading out on the town in her glad rags,
laughs a laugh like a floribunda rose pinned in her hair.
She has so much beauty in her, more than this summer
evening, in all its frippery. More, even, than the sound
of her heels the length of the road, her phone voice
dipping into company, the pooled high talk of her
and her friends slipping through the city’s open door.
Do me a favour, daughter: sometime, in time, wear for me
a sweetheart neckline, slingback sandals, my good ring
and howsoever many of your necklaces and bracelets.
Walk your walk through ten thousand doorways
so the music of you is one and the same as the music
of starlings and new moons and traffic lights and weirs,
only in a new arrangement arranged by, and for, you.