Mark Simon Hill

A boy
towards me,
arms widespread,
he runs,

to be heaved up,
hugged, spun around on the spot,
legs whirling,
idling helicopter blades,
muffled giggles

confectioner of splendid chocolate cakes,
master of Michelin five star mousse -
eclipsing all others

creamy curls, dark eyes,
excited two year-old
“Simon-Lola-Daddy, – look at my penie!”
rolled-up comic book extension – wow!

sewed a neat jacket, and more,
for “Snoopy-dog”.
put on plays,
and bossed the other kids,
glorious, in glittery,
made-to-order,
gold cape, by Kathie

“I love you Kathie”, as we waltz
on old lino round the kitchen floor

co-star of unfinished super8.
solicitous father-to-be,
stands behind Tracy
stroking her pillow-padded tummy.
her floppy-hat-shaded face
lit with impish grin,
head tilted back to see

drives her to hospital to deliver.
wheel-less, plank billycart,
concerned glances to the back seat
they make it in time

the boy, grown up,
beloved man -
has gone away.
nessun dorma.

Kathie Farn