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