Santa

Here is your present,

well wrapped-up by Ma and Pa.

It’s you! Ho, ho, ho!!

After school, a Down’s boy

climbs eleven steps to his room, puts on

a DVD, drops himself into magic,

colour, drumming; this is a time to be:

a time of sweet adolescence, childlike wisdom,

in love with attending to buttons, his world’s Aladdin,

asking, wishes, lost in treasure troves.

Sing!

When Andrew bursts out singing;

first – a shock – and then delight

like a snow-fox seeking freedom

dots a barren moonscape,

catching pools of light.

He sings without a warning

- other throats join in - my son

donates his heart and voicebox,

irrepressible life-force

croons outlandish songs.

‘Perfect’ said the Downs’ boy

‘How about marmite toast’ I said.

‘Perfect’ came a quick reply

and, with a push, a magic toast rack

kick-starts time - he nods his head.

No need for clocks, he’s on his way

when chewing starts a perfect day.

‘You’re luckier than most’ he means

‘but miss the move when life’s imperfect.’

A hand is ticking, ever moving,

clocking now with chances perfect.

Perfect every passing minute,

perfect as a melting snowflake.