Well you say you don't need me
to walk with you anymore.
That's okay because I have things to do,
things I put off because I couldn't put off
you growing up.

I get home too early and the rhythm is out.
You turn your small back and wave,
and I longed for this expanse, I did –
it won't take me long to get used to it.
I'll be 20 again, doing two loads of washing in a row
and thinking I was busy.

I guess you can cross roads alone.
I used to be able to but now something is missing
without your little hand in mine.
I'm forever in Island Bay trying to get across the rivers:
Liffey, Mersey, Tiber, Clyde.

We can both fit in a dinghy, nothing fancy.
You're reaching out for the fluffy stalk of the toetoe
on council land. I'm supposed to be morally instructive,
I'm supposed to say you can't take it,
but I need a flag for this historic landing.

When we get there, I unclip my arms from around you.
I take my fluorescent, inflated self – provider of safety
and special cushioning at the back of the neck.
I take that stuff and leave you with the dangling red whistle
and no instructions, moral or otherwise,
because those whistles were so plastic, so weak
they barely made a sound.

Am I shouting this from water to land?
If I am it's because this is how it's always been
since you moored your first cell inside my body:
If you need me, you just breathe.