I wanted you to inherit the earth
Not just a piece of it.
They say the rich, because they’re worth
More than men like me, should have
Children and heirs to love.
Yet I felt that when I’m dead the sunset’s wrath
Of colours, my child, would be your treasure trove.
You can’t bequeath a thunder-clap,
So I ran from her -
Your mother deserved a better chap,
Better at breaking bricks and bread
Which she’s doing instead,
To bring you up; our love gave to life a shape
Fancying the earth our tombstone when we’re dead.