The moon is dangling from the ceiling of the night.
My grandson, eighteen months of age, totters
Along our quiet close in hot pursuit of it.
Frequent stumbles don’t discourage him. His grandma
Has him wrapped up like a mini-Michelin-man.
I follow closely, ears alert for traffic movement.
This shiny thing, he’s sure, is almost within reach.
Jumping’s an art he has mastered yet.
His outstretched, chubby fingers grasp in vain.
“Up, up, up,“ he babbles, clutching at my knee.
I hoist him skywards, one arm round my neck,
The other grabbing for what’s unattainable.
I tote him home the fifty yards or so
To warmth of bathroom, change to jim-jams
And the current bedtime story “IT WAS JAKE.”
No other book will do. It’s asked for every time.
Alternatives are vigorously waved aside.
We chant familiar sentences. His eyelids droop.
Tomorrow, with its fields of opportunity,
Will have his full attention when he wakes.
Meantime, my grandson’s dreaming only of the moon
And Jake!
By Peter Wyton
