Andrew before birth:

imagine he’s sitting at a table

in a kitchen with hams hanging on hooks

and eggs a-frying (garlic and fennel)

- in a time before time - and a small sun

burgeoning outside - lifts the sky

(and a vigilant hare) into listening heart.

Around that scrubbed table sit three people;

the son of my second son’s unborn son,

an old man who’s been here before – and a

tweed bedecked lady, lipsticked and twinkling,

holding a cigarette and whiskey glass.

‘What will it be?’ says the old man, earnest

as an owl. ‘Performer.’ says the lady

‘Stand-up or West End – he might make it big!’

“A hero,’ says the boy ‘master or leader!’

Andrew’s head drops and the man simply smiles.

‘They need me’ says Andrew ‘my cross will be

heavy. Down’s Syndrome for me, mate, let’s go.’

Les Miserables

‘Musical please!’ says Andrew

‘What will it be? Maybe Cats,

Chitty, Chitty Bang, Bang or

Joseph – a good one, please - a favourite!’

We sit eating breakfast,

porridge, like Bears in a story.

Loudly, he soars into ‘Les Mis’

‘He’s like the son I might have known!’

Sudden tears pour volcanoes of water

as my throat drops on-down into wells;

‘the son I might have known’ sees much further

than any old heartless ambition

and an angel carousing beside me

smiles from his face like the sun.

Revelation

Flicking on a little switch - electricity

surges somehow out of darkness into light – !kapow!

my room ignites in sunshine, even

throwing shadow out from ghostly pillows.

How I trust that switch - and how I’d love a key,

or gizmo, shocking realization;

illuminating (simply by touching a button)

personal power, light and clarity!

The bugger is - it’s not like that;

I can’t locate a switch for insight

or a tool transforming sense.

Give me, O give me, awareness

so that irises flex and my waggling tongue

is led by a heartbeat thudding through chambers of truth.