Kyle, our eyes are on you Coo-ee, the future’s sound Hear, the stockwhip’s fracture Kyle, you’re homeward bound. Not the world’s greatest poem, agreed, but note the third comma down, the pause before the whipcrack. You’d need a microscope to see how one comma differed from another down a page, yet to Kyle Morrison, son of Bounder Morrison, that comma had, and always would have, the effect of a prophecy or accusation, a belt to the ear, a hidden shock. Kyle didn’t like the effect. Never had. Always wouldn’t. Nothing that wasn’t great poetry should have anything like a powerful effect. All his life Bounder Morrison never gave up. ‘Don’t like it, sonny?’ ‘I do,’ said Kyle. ‘You don’t. You’re too bloody sensitive. Son, you ought to be proud. Enjoy the limelight. “Kyle” has a ring to it. “Prince” is a rank royale.’ ‘But I’m not –’ said Kyle, but he couldn’t say what he was not in the context of who Bounder said he was. He could not get rid of the feeling of there never being enough words to express what that was.
