The autistic boy

 

He comes out at night

With the purple clouds

And sepia stars

Making his entrance

From his mother’s yard

To the verge of grass

 

His tone his now familiar

A low hum like a drone

Or a distant rumbling engine

Only God and his family

Know he’s here

And me of course

As I’m fascinated by his free display

 

His name is Jamie

I’ve watched him grow

From a young boy

To a fine young man

Still I only see him from

Between my balcony slats

As they frame his behaviour

And capture the moments like

A rare photograph.

 

I only see him at night

And even when he was young

The same time he would appear

As if there was something sacred about this time

Making me wonder how he spent his day light hours

 

As soon as he gets on to the grass

He is transformed

From a shy boy unable to fathom the world

To an angel flying free in his own microscopic universe

I wonder if he is locked into the prison of his mind’s condition

And this was his attempt to break free from its chains.

 

I wonder as I watched him play

If there was any notion of self-consciousness in him

That maybe someone else might be in this space

Sharing the night and the magic it brings

 

He would whirl and run and skip

Doing the occasional forward roll

And cart wheel always humming

Like a motor boat, lively engaging its

Familiar surroundings

 

His arms would flay in a double circular motion

As if he would soon take off and be in an orbit

Amongst the stars and the cherubim’s

And there he would stay

Till breakfast only coming down out of the clouds

To terra ferma to rest and recouperate 

And be visited again by his mother's loving arms

and his proud dad's beaming smile.