Yesterday I wrote a poem for my son. In the interests of balance (and because I enjoyed writing it) I have written one for my daughter too. I hope she likes it. I have a suspicion she will be more critical, be more likely to pick holes in it. But that’s good – a poet needs a critical friend! I might, now, even have a go at a few more poems. Sorry!
She slips her hand into mine.
We are silent. For now.
There’s no need to speak.
She will tell me all about it when she’s ready.
And then we smile.
That’s all I need. All we need.
She looks up, I look down.
The gap won’t be there forever.
Once home she draws me from the kitchen.
“Not in a minute, Mummy, now.”
She pre-empts me, knowing exactly what I will say.
“It’s bedtime, sweetheart,” I call, later.
She protests, pleading. “One minute, please.”
I watch her writhe in sleep.
Listen to her giggle, chatter to no-one.
I stroke her tousled hair and kiss her cheek.
“I love you,” I whisper.
“Not in a minute, now.”