After several puffs of breath,
the dandelion clock strikes 3.
“3 o’clock, and 3...
...the same age as you!”
I exclaim to my imaginative son,
as he attempts to catch some
parachuting dandelion seeds.

As I watch him, the years
blow backwards on a breeze.
It feels like only yesterday that
I was cavernous and at the cusp of
entering a longed-for new world.

Memories float through my mind:
our first scan, painting the nursery
sky blue,
waddling, waiting, eating curry,
waiting, being induced, contracting;
and at last, taking my bag to hospital.

Where, in a ward, in winter
night pushed into day.
Having gained altitude since sunrise,
the citrine sun shone after solar noon
to mark the safe arrival of a baby boy.

As I bask in birth-born love, the years
blow backwards on a breeze.
Tingly goosebumps raise my skin,
following a magical memory of a time
when I blew a cluster of silver dandelion seeds to make a wish -
a wish I now know, conceived.