Treasure

Born into water: that was the plan.

Magically you’d twirl out of her and spore into the world.

You’d head in, head-first and unfurl from an oyster;

not a pearl but some perfect little thing we’d cried about 

even thinking about.

But you were a stubborn sort of little thing 

and in the end like an oyster unwilling to be shucked

we had to pluck you out. 

You didn’t fancy a swim; you didn’t want out of your air pocket just yet. 

Like I was

in our scarlet-walled home, 

you were comfy and warm and membraned.

To remain was to be like a limpet, a squatter in a chill-out womb. 

For you, now was a bit too soon.

But with ebbs and pangs, held hands and grit

they managed to unclamp you from inside.

Wide-eyed, you

were hauled ashore with the tide.

The catch of the day, fished out

and blinking into glare.

Hook, line and sinker,

you were there. 

You’d already a flair for the dramatic

in birth, a head full of hair. 

The glorious girth and 

substantial weight was worth the

substantial wait. 

The little stowaway is no more: he’s above board now,

he’s a flag at full-mast and now

somehow he’s even there in the past. 

Which has been rewritten now. 

Something that’s always been here:

the sound of familiar waves in a conch shell

held to your ear.

Now echoes tell the future and the horizon roves close to the shore,
you're the smooth jewelled edges of once-sharp glass.

You’re home now and like the untamed
sea grass, you’ll spread out and grow.

Row row row your little boat all over, Syd.

Sail far, go off-grid and look up at the 

birds and the moon and the stars.

You’re the best thing they did, 

in truth and by far. 

You can swim but you can fly as well. 

The bird gave you feathery wings so you can soar

and your dad is the level ocean floor.

So dive down to the seabed, drop an 

anchor for later

and then you can fly across the equator

until you reach something interstellar.

Go on adventures, but go home and tell her. 

Tell him and tell us everything and 

we’ll laugh and we'll tell you what we did in our day. 

And your whatever is their whatever. 

Because for as far as forever can be measured,

you’ll be their little bit of dug-up gold: 

a thing more precious than any treasure

and worth more than any lottery

that has ever been won. By anyone. 

Their little pearl, their sea-bird, their Syd, their son.