Life Story
So, I bought all the daily papers,
to mark the time. He’ll be able, we say,
to look back, to see what was happening
in the world, this auspicious autumn day,
when the remarkable went unremarked
in a little hospital, in a little town,
when, after a day-and-a-half
of false labour, they called him down:
the conjurer. Outside, I slid on
plastic wellingtons, stripped to underwear,
and dove into a freshly-boiled gown,
to be ushered into the theatre, where
a modesty curtain had been strung
across the conjurer’s table. There you
lay, ready for the prestidigitation
to begin. His knife disappeared from view,
and a small, red boy was lifted
up, above the makeshift drape, and swayed
into life. Meanwhile, in Atlanta,
Addis Ababa, and Adelaide,
the trick was repeated, that day
and every day to this. And so, yes,
it wasn’t news. No messenger rode
from Ghent to Aix; it didn’t stir the presses –
but, as each small star seems almost
trivial, in the night sky’s giant maw,
in concert with the seven sisters (and the rest),
they make a universe of boundless awe
Peter Challis

If you have any thoughts on this poem, 
Peter Challis would be pleased to hear them.