The stabilisers are squeaking and your head is still 

too tiny for your helmet. We’re taking aim

at August and the cycle turns as clockwork

as a comet. Your new parents have had previous

experience of life-limiting illness;

but they haven’t a dog, frogs in a pond

or a slow-worm on top of the compost.

I’m looking after you – to when I’m stationed

at the wrong end of a spyglass, clearing sheds

and bookshelves of a pink car and scooters,

Snow White, bright red lipstick and nail varnish -

when I’m slumberless in search of rhyme and rhythm,

not responding to the nightmares of young children;

when I stare at all the empty space and wonder

if it’s appropriate to watch Rastamouse alone.