On Your Birth

I told the paper seller outside the train station of your birth that day he wasn't interested, but I knew the truth of it It had been a hard night for your mother a storm of pain, of emotions of crying now it was six in the morning and I left her drinking tea and nibbling toast while you lay sleeping in a perspex cube Things would never be the same Us three now met on the road and we would walk together You looked cross, but I knew you would one day smile and the sun did rise behind Archway Station escalators squeaked and grumbled away reflected against ceramic tiles the paper seller would forget but I would never forget today