Beloved sons
Hear him, the eldest of these late chances,
notice his ache to play the leading part,
performance ever masking a fine heart.
& the next, who lopes off the pace,
our dreamer, this artist drawing
from our loud crowd to private space.
Then my brave athlete, his frowning look
as he struggles with speech, then books.
A ghosting of a golden man I glimpse.
& my last who bumps up his age
like a young Digger enlisting,
keen to hang with the brotherly gang.
& I can’t forget the other,
born long ago, he’d never guess
I play memory’s cards close to my chest.
“Being at home can be fun, insulating, relaxed, boring or isolating ... depending on how the day is going.”*
School holidays are almost over in my part of the world – six long weeks of noise and squabbling balanced by hot, lazy days at the beach or the pool with lots of daring exploits and laughter. Many of our days were spent at home, basking in simple pleasures like baking, playing games or outdoor pursuits – trying to relax the everyday routines of school-morning bustle and ‘having to be somewhere on time’. However pleasant, I must admit to being relieved that life gets back to normal next week, and I can reclaim some of my own time for writing again!
* From Being Mummy by Anne‑marie Taplin published April 2007