my children are no different to yours;
they dream and they scheme,
they dress up and they mess up,
forever confusing the adults with their zeal and their squeal(s);
they are in life and they love life. the moment carries them
along familiar streets
we trace our way
to the library.
their path is seldom neat.
they loop and curl,
jump and whirl their way
through the concrete;
making like monkeys on the pavements and posts,
weaving in and out the rusty road signs
(no dusty bluebells in this urban sprawl).
my children know how to fly.
when the spirit takes them,
blind to grown ups’ lurching hearts,
i can no more stem
the flow of them,
than i can turn back the tide.
… they grow their own way …
with curious mind and open heart,
for the whispers of their soul.
my job is to scatter seeds along their path,
looking closely for those carried away in a breath,
taking root, growing shoots—
these we tend.
in the end,
a game of faith (not for the fainthearted),
a stepping into the unknown (the place where the magic happens),
a trusting that (deep inside) things are blossoming.
i bear witness to their unfolding;
watching from the wings.