They come armed with bulbs:
it’s not too late they say
though the wind blows cold
across the Shannon
and the ground is frostbitten.
I watch from the window
as they set to work
on a thankless patch of earth.
They chat. About what?
A reckless daughter?
A feckless son?
The baby inside me kicks
and I put the kettle on.
They stay out longer
than they need to,
clearing weeds and stones.
Winter jobs.
I see them laugh at something.
Their cheeks are red.
Their hair windswept.
I throw more turf on the fire
or maybe a stolen briquette.
I'm not sure what happened next.
Tea, cake, excitement over babygros
pulled from their shopping bags.
By early March,
with Esmé in our arms,
their bulbs burst into wild applause.
We learnt about a lot that year.
Calpol. Nappies. Nipple shields.
Boundless love.
Exhaustion. Fear.
And how a gift given
in winter's grip
will grow to greet our girl
each spring.
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