Cuckoo (Poetry)

For Grandfather on his birthday, 1st December

I picture that house how it might have been
one hundred and ten years ago tonight
just the one upstairs light
still burning — that one yellow square
glowing out across the street —
a beacon on a chill December midnight
with the first snow of the winter
drifting down — its silent slow flakes
appearing impossible — emerging so white
from the great black cavern of the sky.

On the stroke of twelve exactly you were born
and the wooden bird sprang from the clock
to greet you and was answered by your cry —
perhaps the midwife smiled — your mother, too
exhausted by her efforts — pale and small —
and joked how they might call you ‘cuckoo’ —
so ‘cuckoo’ you became — the little stranger
in the nursery and the third
of her four sons — no daughters in the house
for balance. Did she welcome you or turn

cheek to pillow disappointed — tired
to find another gaping mouth to feed?
Or perhaps she took you gladly to her breast
responding to your blind and blameless need
and joy spilled from that window — warmed the night
a little with the muted happy sounds
celebrating your safe delivery as snow piled on the gatepost
and swaddled the house — calmed it into sleep
and you — the new chick in the nest
settled in to survive them all.