Looking After You
The stabilisers are squeaking and your head is still
too tiny for your helmet. Weíre taking aim
at August and the cycle turns as clockwork
as a comet. Your new parents have got previous
experience of death, disease and sickness;
but they donít have dogs, frogs in a pond
or slow-worms on the top of the compost.
Iím looking after you Ė to when Iím stationed
at the wrong end of a spyglass, when the shed
is cleared of a pink car and red scooters,
and Cinderella hasnít left behind her slippers;
when the time strikes for writing rhyme and rhythm
without dwelling on the dreams of foster children;
to when I stare at so much empty space and wonder
if I can stomach watching Rastamouse alone.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Raymond
be pleased to hear them.