IN CELEBRATION OF THE BIRTH OF OUR FIRST GRANDSON AUGUST 9 2015

 IN CELEBRATION OF THE COMING OF JOSEF RHYS

 

Monday’s child is fair of face

Mum-to-be swims

a mile,  freckle-smiling

checks her pulse.

 Not Monday’s child.

 

Tuesday’s child is full of grace

Mum-to-be watches breakfast TV, texts

by return of post, and yawns.

 Not Tuesday’s child.

 

Wednesday’s child is full of woe

Mum-to-be wobble-walks

to a Barnes café, drinks

NCT latté with other Mums in-waiting.

 Not Wednesday’s child.

 

Thursday’s child has far to go

Mum-to-be finger-winds

her hair, glances scullers rowing

up the Thames to Kew.

 Not Thursday’s child.

 

Friday’s child is loving and giving

Mum-to-be drums a tune

on her rolling tum, wonders

if her baby will ever come;

has acu-pressure and a sweep.

 Not Friday’s child.

 

Saturday’s child works hard for a living

Mum-to-be feels the squeeze, contractions,

labour pain- goes into hospital-

and home again.

 Not Saturday’s child.

 

But the child who is born on the Sabbath Day

is bonny & blithe, good and gay

Mum-to-be breathes air and gas

with Dad’s help pushes hard;

At 10.20 the world welcomes Josef Rhys

Sunday’s child.                                                                                          

ATTACHMENT PANE

 

 

I watch you from the night garden,

trapped in a tiny pane of low-energy twilight,

head in school work, glasses slick on moist nose

-no longer seven but twenty seven-

soon to step into a larger pane

with others waiting for you.

I’ve had this separating moment so many times

I feel resigned

until

the light is a pin hole of indifference.

In panic, I fly back,

the light is there but you have vanished.

 

The light is there but you have vanished.

In panic, I fly back

until

the light is a pin hole of indifference.

I feel resigned.

I’ve had this separating moment so many times,

with others waiting for you.

Soon to step into a larger pane

-no longer seven but twenty seven-

head in school work, glasses slick on moist nose.

In a tiny pane of low-energy twilight

I watch you from the night garden.

WAITING FOR GODOT

Last week attended a course, 'Neuroscience and Attachment' led by Dr Glyn Hudson-Allez and organised by The British Association of Sexual & Relationship Therapy. It was held in a pub on Blackfriars Bridge-a contemporary venue for looking at the impact of childhood trauma on adult relationships and a great view of the Thames. Though the tutor did find the repetitive nature of the busking somewhat trying.
In the evening my oldest school friend and I hobbled through Piccadily. She has a foot problem, so she lent on her stick and I lent on her, like old pals with attachment issues might.
At the Haymarket Theatre, Ian McKellan and Roger Rees, played a couple of ex-Vaudeville performers, Gogo and Didi, now tramps, discussing the meaning of life and how to pass time to relieve its boredom until Godot appears. What shone through all this angst was the meaning of their relationship-to them. As I sat by my friend dropping off into narcoleptic fits and waking at exactly the right moment to laugh at Didi and Gogo, 51 years of friendship felt like life imitating art imitating life .