morning, here

I have missed thee,
a soaking of sun
so brilliant
it warms even the coolest
finger and toe-tips -

we rise and play for a moment
in the lightest room of the house -
I rock with that child adorned
in copper-frizz,
one of the too-many
zooms across the
papery playhouse...

off to breakfast,
porridge of course,
& mashed banana for him
& stewed quince for me
there's earl grey steaming
and two slices of honey-oat bread
second-day after baking
and still delicious...

there's reading of the word,
and running outside
to greet the trees of course
palm, paper bark, fern
and climbing vine -

I find a wisp of grape-vine
and he a stale hunk of bread
still apparently quite appetising,
oh no, somehow his shoes
and cuffs are soaked,

let's wait a little while
on returning indoors 
(and changing clothes)
I knit around his happy clattering
stick waving and so forth... 

all of a sudden
sirens sound,
maybe three at once,
the babe stops still
and watches intently,
not that he can see them
but through the trees and fence and roads
something dramatic and mesmerising...

and I think, oh my soul,
how precious mornings are,
bright sun, sixteen-month-old and me...