13 January 2022


Your birth – I wasn’t there
I only have reportage.
You came in camouflage,
firstborn of twins –
identical.

(i) 13 January 2022


Tiny person
	we met you
  		for a little while
minute perfection
	in your crystal cave
		enshrined in love
how glad we were
     to greet you
		wish you could have stayed
a moment longer
	but thank you
 		for the time you came to bless our lives.


(ii) 17 January 2022


Not for you an undramatic exit:
nestled in your mother’s arms

you took your leave,
Wolf Moon huge in January sky.

Now we are left to grieve.

We drive home over Stainmore,
a month to the day, Joseph,
that we said goodbye

and we drove the same route
under the magical light
of Wolf Moon rising.

This time, Snow Moon appears,
pops up above the hills,
orange, huge,

such a shock in the dark,
I almost leave the road
from staring.

The temperature’s dropping,
enough to trigger gritting
as we listen

to red warnings of Storm Eunice –
tomorrow she’ll come.
But Oliver,

this is your event,
your second full moon,
and today,

you are five weeks old
and we have been allowed
to see you again,

touch your lovely warm
and perfect skin.
Can such a tiny person

know his own mind, play up,
show disapproval?
What we see

and what we know, Oliver,
is that you have you own forms
of communication.

We take note.

I measure your progress in moons,
Oliver, miracle baby, born
at 22 weeks: 400 grams.

You weren’t expected to survive.
Your twin brother Joseph didn’t.
He died at four days old,

when Wolf Moon was full.
But you
snuck in, hung on,

keeping a low profile:
no expectation, no expectation.
You had the moon

in your sights, weathered
Snow Moon, Worm Moon,
holding on for Easter:

first Sunday after the full moon
after the vernal equinox.
I used to teach this,

had a sort of quiz,
a formula for kids
who finished all their work,

to calculate the date
for as many years
as it took the bell to ring.

And you’re still here – Pink Moon,
a resurrection. A triumph
of medical science

and I don’t devalue that,
but you are a magic baby,
more than a miracle of nature.

Lunar Eclipse


I missed it. Hardly surprising.

4 a.m. Heavy snoring.
And thick cloud covering
for those awake
who hoped to see it.

The garden is awash
with pink and lilac,
and today we celebrate
your official birth date.

You were never planned
to be a Winter baby,
a child of late Spring
who couldn’t wait.

But you’ve made it through
to another full moon
and soon, you can see the world
outside a hospital ward.

And what a time you’ll have.

Not quite a pound of sugar

you carried no weight of expectation
just a whisper of ‘maybe’
but ‘probably not’.

The weight of evidence
came down on 5% to zero
so the flutter of ‘possibly’
like an imperceptible wisp of voile
fell still as we held our breath
and waited
minute by minute
hour by hour
day by night and day
month aer month
each with its new jolt of heavy fear
at every monitor bleep, the wavy lines
as you swing from OK to dangerous.

And as you grow, gain weight,
although we know, and say,
‘Not out of the woods yet’
the harder it is to measure
the weight of our hope.

Surviving twin,
identical brother:

he has his mother’s chin,
his father’s toes,

and if you catch him
in a certain pose,

he has his Grandma’s nose,
poor speck. And when

we look at him,
we see the other.

We drive through biblical rain,
a second baptism:
your first, at 3 days old,

the hospital chaplain
saving you from limbo –
but you didn’t go.

And so,
today we fetch you home,
tiny as a tiny newborn.

And at last,
we get to see you in the flesh,
hold you.

It catches you,
not at that moment –
paddling for the first time
on Scarborough sands
with your tiny son,
walking behind him
holding one of his hands held high,
his other arm outstretched for balance;
full of delight: his and yours,
at new sensations –

but later,
studying the photograph
captured on his mother’s phone,
seeing the other – mirror image
reflected in the water – imagining,
remembering his twin brother.