Adam is nearly five.
He’s singing next door,
his notes scaling the fence,
stringing the words half-heard
from a radio into endless lines
that swoop and dive to a tune
only he’s sure of.

I strain to make sense of it,
the effort too great
as I sit in my doorframe,
watching the breeze tease
the montbretia.

Bennie slinks in,
the morning’s mousing feat
a distant memory
as he winds himself
around my legs,
cocking an ear
for the scratch
he knows I’ll offer.

And I watch the sky,
cloudless for once
in this Irish summer,
and think that
for the first time in a while,
I know how this could be
even more

perfect.