CONRAD
He dances on the table
a shuffling teasing gait,
his curly forehead bent bull-like
in mischievous inspection,
just missing cups, crushing sugar,
applauding everyone's glance.
His beaming busy face
mocks our apprehension.
Lose his balance?
He's master of ceremonies,
he knows he's bold,
funny and enchanting;
neither his elder brother's tell-tale whine,
nor the baby's brown milky stare
or anybody's anything bother him.
He's king of ceremonies.
From table he slides
then a roll glide down
rocking the chair,
tilting so far only,
then swaying back
banana-squelching
glistening hands,
leaving arm-rest lubricated.
By the time she's near, he's reached the floor,
rolls scurrying under the big table
in a dust world of bread crumbs,
safe place of his own
where no one can reach him
without plenty of warning;
enough to let him slink out
and speed around the table
faster than any clumsy Mummy runs,
then underneath again
when she grasps too near.
At last she catches him,
then with a joyful squeal
he wriggles in her clutch
bubbles, bright eyes,
red cheeks and sticky suit,
stamping hands and feet in mid-air,
master of the chase.
Doneraile 1982
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