Like Verulamium Park as spring surges, there’s clustering throughout.
we claim our corner in Wattle Reserve
surrounded by sea and thudding balls and sky.
squinting into the autumnal sun, I snap photos of you both
cocooned on the rug; enjoy our silence, wonder about Alex’ voice.
Who will he sound like and what will he say? We’ll be listening.
Chilli olives, fetta in bell peppers and pesto. Alex sleeps in his pram.
bouncy kids follow footies, rush around swings and slides
soon he’ll be there- too soon, too soon…
Drift south to the Brighton café wallpapered with Marilyn Monroe.
The menu board can’t spell, but we comprehend
Maltezer cheesecake and I have a lemon, lime and bitters.
We’ve explored Central Park and Madrid’s Retiro;
Greenwich Park and the World’s Prime Meridian but
For us three this tiny common is our world.
Mother’s Day Dream
Like a persistent vision, I’d seen it often and vividly…
You’re strolling across Wrigley Reserve;
excited dogs and swirling colour and laughing picnickers
burst across the glittering, autumn afternoon.
I imagine you both hand-in-hand, chatting away.
in our private universe Alex christens you “Mummy” and
asks curious question after curious question with
a voice innocent and eager and trusting.
I’m watching as the sun catches his blond curls and
perfects this image. Now that Alex is here
my dream is speeding towards us and
I can’t wait to witness that mother and son moment.