Savouring the moment
when my youngest son stirs
from his night's sleep,
his arms around my neck, his head
bent on my shoulder as we descend the stairs.
His body curled up against my side,
eyes staring out of the window at the shaking
greens, the shades of grey and white
of the Irish sky, he slowly wakes until
the Switch calls to uncurl and play.
Soon his brother will come down,
his sun-touched hair entangled,
smiling, scrubbing the same shaped eyes
as his brother's and their father's,
strained against the light.
Blueberries to share and clothes to wear,
if the rain stops long enough
they will bike and slide in the park,
and if it doesn't,
we will stay in, together four.