BUSY young fool, unruly Son,

Why dost thou thus,

Through walls, and through duvets, call on me?

Must to thy motions Mama's seasons run?

Saucy pedantic babe, go chide

Late Papas and sour Babushkas,

Go tell thy tricycle that the Prince will ride,

Call London's commuters to harvest offices;

Mama's sleeps, all alike, no season knows nor clime,

Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.

Thy shouts so reverend, and so strong

Why should'st thou think?

I could dampen and cloud them with a pillow,

But that I would not lose your sound for long,

Despite my moans have deafened thine.

Look, and to-morrow late tell me,

Whether both th' tippy trucks of spice and mine

Be where I left them, or lie here now with me.

Ask for those toys whom thou saw'st yesterday,

And thou shalt hear, "All here in one bed lay."

Thee – all toddler, and all in a state I;

Nothing else is;

Toddlers do but play with stacking cups; compared to this,

All honour's mimic, all wealth alchemy.

Thou, Son, art half again happy as me,

In that the world's contracted thus;

Thine age asks constant attention, and since thy duties be

To wake the world, that's done in waking me.

Oh go on then, come here to me... now thou art everywhere;

This bed thy trampoline is, these walls thy easel.

With apologies to John Donne and The Sun Rising

The h2g2 Meets Archive

Solnushka

12.03.12 Front Page

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