Billy

An unapologetically soppy poem by me as a young mum. I am still crazy about this boy and he is still a cuddly one, but he’s now known as Will, mostly keeps his clothes on and is slightly less obsessed with his Gameboy.

Bare feet thudding across landing, slow scuffle-drag of wooden door on carpet;

he glides spectrally towards me, perfectly, unabashedly bare,

and confidently scrabbles into the darkness,

where he snuggles dazedly into sleep-laden arms until

the alarm shatters the body-warm bed nest, and my finger tips

tickle his sturdy, satin back while he squirms and chortles,

then turns around and unfailingly takes my breath away with

a long-lashed milk chocolate gaze.

We walk into the freshly-laundered morning;

his wind-chilled hand homes into mine until an aeroplane,

a cloud, a cat or a lorry demand his body’s focus;

words and images squeezing and

bubbling from an internal picture-store through

an unsatisfactory vocabulary and sometimes a

stutter and another squeeze of the hand as he

galumphs in rhythm with the need to tell.

After school he has a happy sticker, he did not

roar at story-time or dive joyously into mud.

He stands proud, stomach protruding and

knock-knees unashamedly together, splayed feet;

the innocence of bodily ignorance.

He earned his game boy and he sits,

milk-moustached, after his bath,

pink tongue lolling and a slight

frown as he tackles real monsters;

with spring-loaded tension

he directs frantically jabbing fingers.

Night time, and he is a graceless rag-doll,

a discarded duvet twisted lumpishly

in one corner of its football-themed cover.

His bluey-white skin wears

a slight flush and the musk-mint breath

is almost imperceptible; parted lips

display outgrown crazy-paving

teeth and his sun-bleached cow’s lick

invites my palm.

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