When my son sings

he’s a drunk, symmetrically wailing,

an Am-Dram soloist missing a note,

he’s lashing it, belting it out for the Tempest

in Prospero’s coat.

Seldom polite but full of himself;

upstaging, rampaging, a gravity pull

and his mouth is more open that any old sorcerer

or Titanic’s hull.

But open your eyes, look out at a dawning;

into soft-belly forces, even a taste

of whale-song, tree-root, hyena laughing,

a heart in a race …

… and embrace.