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Small boy, bull-
He is a stillness in this gravelled playground.
Steel December day.
What can he know
of winter's silhoutted trees,
its silver sky.
He knows December by his nose,
and the way the cold grows in his skin,
and the icy fluff of breath of moth
that flits across his face
and turns to rain.
And like the sun
seeks out the roots of trees
to nudge to spring,
assuredly he finds his mother's hand
and folds his fingers into hers.
Oh spirit Wild!
How mild you rest inside this child.
What will his manhood bring from years of dark.
He holds his own with boys who see,
loves strawberries, chocolates and oranges.
At home he runs his cars along the floor,
and asks his mother
where the sound goes
when it sounds no more.
© Wendy Bardsley 2014