At the Playground
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
I know it, this steady pace
contains us both, days overlap: he will perhaps
never love me more than now.
© Katherine Gallagher