We sit in the deckchairs with our feet up.
Both wrapped in our favourite blankets,
me with my cup of tea,
you with your bottle of milk.
The sun is dapple gentle on our hands
as we listen for aeroplanes,
the cooing of doves, a dog barking.
We discuss the wonder of transformation,
how a bumblebee is hidden inside a flower.
The petals you’ve plucked
scattered white across the lawn,
and of course there is pain,
of course there is exhaustion,
a feeling of having been drained
of some vital force,
and you look a little sad when I say
I can’t go down the slide or play
the knock me over and jump on me game.
But only for a moment before discovering
I can sort of throw a ball with the wrong hand
and even if it is a little bit different,
we are still in the garden in summer
and you are still my very best boy.