The Child-Catcher

Thunder is the gurgle
of an overweight bairn,
falling through talcum,
no choice but to breath:
thermals inflate
his wimpish lungs.
At this height,
the planet is poster paint
mixed by hand.
He rotates like a satellite.

Once the beach is a snake,
scaled with umbrellas,
he recalls the beginning of time.
The world is an apple.
It will be his first word.

On the sand, with her palms
spread like a prayer book
she awaits her son's arrival.
The beach is a wet towel;
the sky gestates.
The boy is not a meteor.

Her superb technique:
a little bit of give
in her chalked-up mit.
Gripped like a chalice,
the little dizzy fatty
gazes dumbly at her forehead '
this is his first reminder
of our slowly turning earth.