" Welcoming Harriet"

Monday was special for two Liverpool solicitors; their baby daughter was born.
I'll meet her at Christmas when she'll be 3 weeks old.
She has lots of dark hair and the littlest of feet; so says my younger son, of his brand new niece.

Little feet. I remember my own firstborn's little feet. I have very small hands but I sat up in bed in the dark hospital night and I cradled those feet in my hands and I loved their softness, their texture, their smell of newness; such perfection. Hmm. Sounds mushy, but it was lovely and I don't aplogise!

Years on, I wrote this; I don't often write poetry but something drove me to this. It's called " His Boots".

"I dropped them at the station...
him in his boots, hefty size ten.
My son, and the girl with the lights in her hair.
Back-packs, a Turkish skull cap
( And him, in his boots)

And then in my mind's eye, I pictured:
his feet.
In my hands, I once stroked their newness..
toes, nails, like pale cream shells,
rosy heels, small;
Years ago.

For the London train
I dropped them at the station,
the girl with the lovely eyes
and him, in his boots, hefty size ten.
End of their holiday,
end of Easter: beginnings.

Leaving with laughter,
Elizabeth
( and him, in his boots)

And the thing is , L+N ( if you're peeping) it'll seem like no time at all before H is wearing the highest of heels, the clumpiest of boots....so tickle her feet and enjoy every minute..