First, the wakeful night feeds, all that milk,
the feverish sterilisation, the cracked skin on your hands.

Nappies, full of all sorts, sagging around waists,
the suspicious whiffs which grown-ups pretend not to notice.

Getting them down for afternoon naps, 
driving mile upon mile, the memory maps
we draw as we motor aimlessly with rear view glances.

The hours spent coaxing out those first words,
Mamma, Dadda, names to sketch their narrow horizon
and then all at once they babble endlessly, verbal scribble.

I dread the time when I reach behind me as I cross a road,
saying hand? hand? assuming there will be a tiny complicit paw,
the jogging weight of steps to keep up,
only to find I’m standing there alone.