His first years as a schoolboy, were the years my father spent
attending school in Paris, where the First of April meant
a fish made out of paper and the efforts to conceal
attaching it to somebody - le poisson d'Avril.
Something fishy going on, with a bit of sticky tape:
an accoutrement with something of an oceanic shape.
Standing at a bus stop, or sat down to eat a meal,
'Regardez, regardez - le poisson d'Avril!'
Though French was his first lingo, my dad had an English name.
and the call was heard from England, so across the sea he came
to an existence at a distance, which was going to reveal
less croissants to start with - even less, poissons d'Avril.
Like a thumb with a great soreness, he would stick out at the school,
where no fish marked the tradition of the English April Fool.
Sticking even further out, was lacking in appeal:
hence the sense in the dispensing with the poissons d' Avril.
Though fitting in, surviving, and not seeming very French
seemed reasonable to my dad, I'm glad of the enchantment
of his continental heritage - come springtime what I feel
is a sense we're in the season of those poissons d'Avril.
I pick up where my dad left off, in schooldays back in France.
When April's at the door, I'm more than ready for the chance
to get stuck in with the sticking on, to dance about and squeal,
'zut alors, ici encore - le poisson d'Avril!'