A birthday. The temporary trimming of wings.

Five degrees today. The frost and ice have gone. As have blue skies. It’s been grey and damp, a light mizzle in the air. And now stillness has been replaced by wind moaning as it circles the farmhouse.

It’s my nephew’s birthday. Twenty four today. Because of the lockdown he’s not out celebrating with friends in Bristol. He’s not doing the real-time activities he loves. He’s at home with his parents in rural Buckinghamshire. We’ve just sung ‘Happy Birthday’, waved sparklers and watched him eat chocolate cake – virtually.

It was a snowy January night when I drove to my sister’s house to babysit his sister, so that his parents could go to the local hospital for his birth. There is a poem, (of course), about that drive and that night, but that’s for another day! For now, here’s another piece, a short poem inspired by the focus and determination of my nephew – Huw (for himself), William (for his grandfather).

Boy, playing.

At lunchtime, sausages untouched,
neither sitting nor standing, but
quivering on jack-knifed leg; front teeth,
quite new, clamped tight over lower lip,
(frowning like his granddad, his uncle,
before a penalty is taken),
faint humming stirs a straight light fringe.

And that small device, which beeps, has lights,
cannot be prised from nimble fingers
for a wash, for food or drink, for aught
except a clap of exultation,
brief table drumming of his success –

as with those skittering, deft digits,
he scales the heights, his best score yet.

Huw was always going places. Of course no-one is going anywhere this January. But horizons will extend, and freedom, fun and frolics will return one day soon.

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