Friday, 29 November 2013

Baby Boy


They are that small: who can remember? It's not been so long but still we puzzle it. He has a frown. It is troublesome to be born, he says, with this frown and his closed eyes and his scrunched posture. Oh, we say: Baby Boy it will be lovely, you'll see, later, when your eyes can sort shape from colour. Ask your cousin, she has been here for years: two, nearly two and a half. She puts a hand on your hair, it's soft as her own rabbit. You hold her finger- he's got hands, she tells us: her eyes open up wide, all mystery and appreciation.
Little Grandson had said all along: when the baby comes, my brother. He is at school when we visit, forging ahead, reconnaissance stuff. Of nature tables and Lego, of numbers, letters, hierarchy, protocol, dinosaurs and biscuits, he has knowledge to impart: gravitas with giggles: such a wry smile he has: those boys, we will be saying: oh, those boys!
Every day, every minute: babies are born: ergo: every day, every minute: the potential is immaculate.



No comments:

Post a Comment

Thank you for reading my words- my chance to read yours here: