When my father held me for the first time
After Donika Kelly
In the beginning was your mouth, its gentle, proud smile, airy whisper, light zephyr breeze which cooled my skin, that Paisley August, my christening. In the beginning there were your arms shirt crisp against my chubbiness, baby tuft of hair. In the beginning there were your eyes, honest, crinkled, open gaze at your first born. In the beginning there was your easy voice, melody of blackbird and sparrows, never raised in anger, a tickle of words, storytelling chords, laughter blending with comic turns and gags. Gift
A light in dark places
Crow garnishes her nest
with shreds of paper
and a library ticket
dropped by my careless father
on a bus or train
or on the city pavement.
Remains fall to earth on a breeze
into the path of Mole.
His claws are tunnelling deep
and so, in with him, travel
the paper, Dad’s handwriting,
and battered cardboard card.
When Mole returns through the mound
to sunlight he cannot see,
he’s brought words and books,
language, ink and poems,
Crow and Mole
together, for me.
Flight of the dragonfly 