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
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