Here is your present,
well wrapped-up by Ma and Pa.
It’s you! Ho, ho, ho!!
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.
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,
croons outlandish songs.
‘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.