Alison Cassidy Poems
A Son Is Born
I place the peonies on the windowsill -
a perfect present for the new mum,
flushed and furry-eyed on the unmade bed.
A bonneted bundle lies in the crook of her arm.
He is small and neatly wrapped
as if he had been sent by post.
The new dad gazes at his little boy.
He looks younger than his twenty nine years
and still slightly drunk from the exhaustion of support.
Young Dylan Brendan sleeps contentedly,
his tiny hands curl and uncurl his dreams,
his mouth makes high pitched kitten sounds.
I find myself humming ‘The Water is Wide’
twelve inch holder