Tomorrow is St David’s Day and the day my oldest baby turns eight years old.
I guess the twinge in the heart I feel at the acceleration of my children’s lives away from that point of holding their tiny wrinkled bodies in my arms for the first time- a searingly beautiful moment which seems so recent- is something every mother feels (well those who have not had the right to choose whether and how often they get impregnated stolen from them by some insane patriarchal religious or social system- but that’s a whole other story.)
I was going to write something to try and express my pride in his development into a smart and joyous boy, already well on the road to independence, coupled with an almost visceral degree of nostalgia. But I fear it could be mawkish. So I’m returning to this poem – ‘Bikes in the Lane’- which was written last spring. I hadn’t written much before and its rough around the ages.
However, I’m ‘wheeling’ it out (never a moment in life where a clanking great pun can’t be brutishly shoved in I find…) in response to an imminent eighth birthday which is hitting me hard…xx
Proust was right. Beauty’s meshed with Melancholy;
His aching arms circle her body,
Lustrous as a pearl, but the blue morning
Leaves him empty. Bittersweet,
Her aftertaste floods his mouth.
Today cherry blossom rain
Flashes through early summer air.
Pink petal bodies carpet the lane
Crushed under your four wheels.
Helmet heads in blue and yellow
Pass to and fro.
And from my impossible distance,
Ten feet and a universe away,
You are lab model particles
Riding the kinetic surge that flows
From your ever-stronger bodies
Each new achievement strains your orbit
Outwards. The world’s positive charge
Will leave us unbound.