he saw his feet go
to his father's shoes,
and his baby's toes
into his.
His father now stepped
to the pair from the time
the grandfather had left,
took his place in the line,
for now his.
I saw the pairs in my mind;
the ones not yet seen
and the ones that had died.
Pairs still to come and pairs that have been.
Tiny and shiny, knitted and fleece,
tattered and battered, slip-on and heeled,
leather and weathered, polished and laced,
safety and weighty, office and suede.
If a baby could choose
at the event of being born,
they could do worse than safe shoes
and a path that's well worn.
(Explanation: In April 2017, I met my cousin, Michael Walsh, at another cousin's house. We weren't chatting about anything profound when Michael mentioned how he had felt when his first child was born; that he had seen himself moving into his father's shoes and leaving his free for the baby. I was in bits, I left with my eyes welling up. What a beautiful sentiment and such poetry, not from me!!!, in what was otherwise a normal chat.
Michael Walsh is the twin of Cath Walsh, one of two cousins who worked on the family tree with me. My poem, Rita's Silver Box, was written after all that work).
