Wee Lachlan at five

Wee Lachlan

Wee Lachlan at five

You can’t imagine the time he’ll be an old man,
and spend warm evenings folded into park benches,

cursing the aches that crept up unannounced, wiping
a brow whose furrows grew when no-one was looking.

His face will have become an onion, cheeks weathered,
and his nose broadened, all skirmished with veins.

The mustard hair will long have turned bone-white,
but his eyes will have stayed the same giveaway blue

as his superhero cape. With luck, the smile will still be
written through him, like his name threading a stick of rock.

 

first published in Right Hand Pointing, issue 105, 2016

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