(Wtitten a month before
the birth of my son).

By field and by coppice
By tumbleweed and marigold,
Skipping at the butterflies
And chattering at the wood,
It’s a handful of happiness
With chubby knees and tatters all
That scurries on to Christmas
Where the old grey man stood.

With a starfish in his buttonhole
And a penny wish for the wishing well
He romps home with a puppy dog
And a flower by his ear,
While the old grey man, smiling
Says: ‘Mummy waits, in a little while -’
And I have a little whisper:
‘I love you, my dear!’

David Lewis Paget