imagine he’s sitting at a table
in a kitchen with hams hanging on hooks
and eggs a-frying (garlic and fennel)
- in a time before time - and a small sun
burgeoning outside - lifts the sky
(and a vigilant hare) into listening heart.
Around that scrubbed table sit three people;
the son of my second son’s unborn son,
an old man who’s been here before – and a
tweed bedecked lady, lipsticked and twinkling,
holding a cigarette and whiskey glass.
‘What will it be?’ says the old man, earnest
as an owl. ‘Performer.’ says the lady
‘Stand-up or West End – he might make it big!’
“A hero,’ says the boy ‘master or leader!’
Andrew’s head drops and the man simply smiles.
‘They need me’ says Andrew ‘my cross will be
heavy. Down’s Syndrome for me, mate, let’s go.’