Unwittingly, subconsciously, my child had packed a sail.
I, stoically kept it furled for as long as I could,
knowing the air was still.
We, blew out our cheeks early, though it was not enough,
I didn’t let him stretch it and measure only
his own enthusiasm and inevitable disappointment;
I regret it even now, as I know how he- we – felt
but I have to stop him tugging, demanding
to be watched, heard, and his thinking the breeze is for him only.
Our patience was rewarded with a most lovely breeze,
our sail billowed happily,
until she inexorably eased past to rustle a whole forest
some way off, a place she can express herself entirely, her idiosyncratic gusts are attentively listened to, where she can recognise her singular beauty.
Even though I know the impersonal nature of her beautiful voice,
breathing and touching, I shared
his simultaneous joy and sadness at the wonderful event.
(I hear her whispers better than he, though he feels
the full extent of her energies.)
While I can apprehend her grace and elan,
it is he who feels her, who smiles too much
and cries too much when we are amongst her,
when she, without any hint of guile or willful intent,
dances about and inside us.
She causes us to merge in human joys,
she helps us believe we are alive.
I had a nightmare about how I,
in my ignorance had trapped her:
I was tormented by her panicked howling,
rattling and tortured wishing to find
a way out;
guiltily I undid the door and out she sped,
tearing at curtains, scattering my diary pages
in an accusing and admonishing littering.
I cannot fail to acknowledge that now
she slows when passing
cautious,suspicious and disdainful.
I am condemned to enjoy,
despite myself, how fresh others are made by her
gorgeous energies, they show
signs of her on their smiles,
even their clothes carry her
freshness that wafts, taunting me
with regret at my clumsiness,
when I fell beyond child-like
into childishness, too enthused
to realise her free-spirited splendour.
I am most lonely beyond her,
when the air is stagnant,
stifling and stale, no more to feel her.
Fans whir artificially, make it too cold,
and fail signally to refresh,
and are, in all senses,