The Little Star

Looking out, looking back in time,

Before the wrinkles, the grey hairs, the bills,

The too wet/too dry/too hot/too cold

Of the weatherman’s drone,

Back before the humdrum was ordinary

And the ordinary was unwanted

And life was measured between pints of beer

Scoreless draws and delayed trains.

We go back further, looking skyward,

Back to the essays and endless conversations

Of Jude the Obscure and Robespierre

And how the Proletariat will never win

And how Thatcher stole milk

And how scraped knees and hopscotch were far more

Important than the nightly news.

Back to the time of short pants, Sunday best,

Weekend roasts with grandma, cloth nappies

Hand knits, bowl cuts and standing quietly

Never saying a word. Adored, held, safe, secure, sleep.

Then gasp, BANG! Heartbeats. Then Silence.

The little star, out there, somewhere,

Looks forward towards time, towards you.

Seeing the potential as it searches the universe for signs

A light that you may or may not see.

You both scan the dark, where your gazes

Will meet, somewhere in the middle of time.