Fledgling Poem by Nick Burbridge

The sky disintegrates, in off-white cascades,
as crosswinds slam the nursery schoolyard,
ridging debris of bikes, ladders, tunnels, slides,
dwarf shapes in yellow capes and boots investigate.

One is still, whose habit is to scream for territory,
defy exchange, tilting for certainties
as he feeds streams of mucus,
three-fingered, nose to mouth,
a quick spirit who haunts you
on the hinterland between waking and sleeping
where you listen to echoes of breathless struggles
with enemies too close for comfort.

Sentry by the giant pencil,
eyelids, lips and cheeks touched
by melting flakes, when he is sure, he turns,
makes new prints on the spangled sheet,
meets you with whirling eyes
and, in case you forget, announces: This is a blizzard.
So the swirling moment is fixed
where he can scan it, prepossessed.

Who are you to tell him, as he learns his art,
what the years may wreak on him,
how constant the vigil will be,
the search for harder terms?

This is his infancy. It has benefits.
As he stands apart and you watch him,
transfixed, through frozen air,
he knows he walks into your heart.