Movement comes alive.
The moment need not change.
The colour in the sky,
new winter light at five.
We are the silence
of the moment amplified.
All action, little talk, but loud,
by board and scooter clatter, hard
abrasion of the loveable resin wheels
negotiating undulating concrete,
poised with indomitable bravery
at the sheer drop of the bowl edge.
One charging port was left live
on the solar panel bench. Yesterday,
at twilight, as I dripped electrons
into the device, the western sky
went orange over blue, an idling light;
the ambient glow available
was equal to the lighting given over
the skate park by round high flood lamps.
The moment had exposed
pleasantly the unbelievable
capture of existence, and it had
something of how I remember the light
in his eyes, the physical photons
waking in Time at the point of emotion,
born to a room surrounded by staff
in hospital garb, the head of surgery,
the chief paediatrician, the parents,
the child, in his skin uniform,
recording already a version
for reading, for subconscious referral,
those first ten minutes into which he was born,
pulled from his mother with smooth,
rounded forceps, with the gathered
reflected in their stainless steel surface.
I’m watching him skate in his helmet,
the other boys skill and daring exceeding his;
where his natural talent exists
it is not yet known to him as a gift.