Fish n Chips

You’re taller than me now. Six four
and not yet fifteen. A dab hand

at spending your pocket money,
tapping your card on the machine

at the Co-op. On tour I watch you
order fish n chips with a please

and a smile and I’m back
at the yard door of the kindergarten

where I’d stop to pick you out amongst
the other toddlers as you stumble-swaggered

like a pheasant past the steps of the slide
to fill your pot with mud, tongue curled

on your top lip. I loved to watch you
out there in the world on your own

before you’d spot me and tear across
the yard into my arms. Tonight,

in the vinegar air of the chip shop
you scoop up your warm white bundle

and we step into the night,
shoulder to shoulder.