Blake

- (my son, written before his birth).

By field and by coppice

By tumbleweed and marigold,

Skipping at the butterflies

And chattering at the wood,

It’s a handful of happiness

With chubby knees and tatters all

That scurries on to Christmas

Where the old grey man stood.

 

With a starfish in his buttonhole

And a penny wish for the wishing well

He romps home with a puppy dog

And a flower by his ear,

While the old grey man, smiling

Says: ‘Mummy waits, in a little while -’

And I have a little whisper:

‘I love you, my dear!’

 

David Lewis Paget