Driving into Dingle, I glance in the rear-view mirror
And catch sight of my boy
As he gazes, bright-eyed with anticipation,
Towards Skellig and carefree days and the life that is ahead.
Just eighteen and fecund with promise and surety,
He stirs a wistful envy in me,
For here am I, sliding semi-banjaxed into middle age,
My light now more of an easy burn than an ardent flame.
But, truth be known, I’m settled into all that.
He moves, catches my eye in the mirror
And grins in jaunty comfort.
I let slip a sly fart.
Just for the craic.
