No Pisen el Césped

My son, who’s never been allowed

to tread on the scarce, yellowed lawns

back in Spain, hesitantly takes

a few steps in Priory Park,

glances back, checks for approval,

then breaks into a wild canter.

And I, who played in our garden

all summer long and who took it

for granted, learn the amazement 

of running over springy grass,

the fear-free tumbles, the green stains.

I wince at them like his Gran did.