I thought I hadn’t written a poem about my son Joseph. But I’ve been going through my notes on my Mac and found this from 1996.
First Frost I wake in the half-light as his small warmth tumbles across me to snuggle on his mother’s side. I stand and stretch the wings she’s made me, who quietly enters and kneels beside him. This is why soldiers cry for their mothers. I furl the blind and let the day’s beginning fill the room. I open the window to the sound of footsteps to the train, delivery vans, cars, the thrum of traffic from the main road. Her focus is total on his tousled blonde head. He grins into the pillow. Half a pound of tuppenny rice, half a pound of treacle. That’s the way the money goes. Pop goes the weasel. He squeals in delight as her gentle fingers prod his small round tummy. I open the backdoor and once outside close it to savour the air and time, loving every second. In my gaze the moment’s harvest surprises me. The movement of dried leaves played by the breeze sings soundlessly of interconnection, the leaves of ash, horse chestnut, lilac, buddleia, repeat the song discreetly as if the wind inspires each tree in turn.
