For My Son
Created | Updated Feb 9, 2009
You lurch away as morning streetlamps throw
Fizzing orange pools on frosty roads.
You seem as fragile as a bird in yellow
Jacket, battered trainers, helmet stowed
On messy hair. You slog through car-clogged streets
On a bike as thin and white as polished string.
Heavy lorries rumble past in complete
Contempt. You dodge between high buildings.
I must not nag you to stuff your rucksack
With inner tubes, money, mobile phone;
Nor worry as the minutes seem to slow
As I await you coming famished back.
You’re capable of coping on your own,
I’d better close the door and let you go.
