Poem , three weeks after conception

The sky will be shaped like a bow when you crane your neck to pray into it.
Roofless, but not burned. Though black, spangled.
Your hair will be the white spray at High Force,
teeth pebbles in the vent.
You will escape the ogre of psoriasis that lives on the knees,
elbowcaps, genitals and face.
For you the stars have already locked into place.
For you the blue coltsfoot in the allotment will be an electrical wonder.
The Red Kite, wolf and bear will return to the borders in numbers.
You will be buried in a country far away, a country like home,
of absolute rainfall.
Beneath a late moon, unfurling.
You shall witness the domination of Jerusalem.
The capsize of London.
I pray that I will never hit or humiliate you,
for whom the best wine in the world will be pressed in Kent.
Who will live to see supermarkets dictating military policy to governments.
Our Lady of Gateshead, watch over us.

Poem, three weeks after conception

The sky will be shaped like a bow when you crane your neck to pray into it.

Roofless, but not burned. Though black, spangled.

 

Your hair will be the white spray at High Force,

teeth pebbles in the vent.

 

You will escape the ogre of psoriasis that lives on the knees,

elbowcaps, genitals and face.

 

For you the stars have already locked into place.

 

For you the blue coltsfoot in the allotment will be an electrical wonder.

 

The Red Kite, wolf and bear will return to the borders in numbers.

 

You will be buried in a country far away, a country like home,

of absolute rainfall.

 

Beneath a late moon, unfurling.

 

You shall witness the domination ofJerusalem.

 

The capsize of London.

 

I pray that I will never hit or humiliate you,

for whom the best wine in the world will be pressed in Kent.

 

Who will live to see supermarkets dictating military policy to governments.

 

Our Lady ofGateshead, watch over us.