At the Playground

(for Julien)

 

 

The March wind whisks against us:

my son, three, starts the roundabout

refuses to get on himself. Today

he has planned ahead, says it’s his turn

to push me, watches me on board

and I’m away. I enjoy being passenger,

store all this for later –

the afternoon’s lulled moves,

everywhere the air heady

and he in the foreground

racing his years, reminding me

to take care, hang on.

 

The ground spins, blurs; he begs it

with each command, checks

I’m not going too fast.

‘You can’t fall off,’ he says

smiling, assured.

 

I know it, this steady pace

contains us both, days overlap: he will perhaps

never love me more than now.

 

 

 

© Katherine Gallagher