poetry vs prose
...d he withstand The voices of the parents calling, calling like birds by the waters edge, By swimming pool, sand bar, river bank, rocky ledge, The little heaps of old clothes, the futures carefully planned? Yet even an old acquisitive king must feel Remorse poisoning his joy, since he allows Particular boys each evening to arouse from leaden –lidded sleep, softly to steal Away into the whispering shore, there to plunge in, and fluid as porpoises swim upward, upward through the dividing waters until, soon, each back home is striding Over thresholds of welcome dream with wet and moonlit skin. One constant in a world of variables - a man alone in the evening in his patch of vegetables, and all the things he takes with him there Where the easement runs along the back fence and the air smells of tomato vines, and the hoarse rasping tendrils of pumpkin flourish...