Jacob’s First Steps on the Southbank

We walk together,
you taking your first steps,
your tiny, perfect hand clamped
around my fingers. Little limpet,
we stick together, tottering out
of Eat and towards the Thames.
The South Bank is saturated with
scurrying people eager to avoid
the rain; umbrellas fluttering open
everywhere. We don’t care about
the rain. You are too keen to reach
the riverside. Your little legs tremble
with effort, your scrunchy knees buckle.
I keep hold of you, tug you gently
away from the leaves and littler
you point to. We come to steps. You
halt. I demonstrate with my foot,
lifting and taping on the concrete.
You look up at me. I tap again. You
try. Two steps the first time, then
you fall. Seven the second time
with the rain coming down. Your
reward both time is to reach
the Thames. You point at cruiseboats
and the way the rain hits the water,
a machine gun of grey. Later we eat
together and you reward your uncle
with peas from his plate, feeding him,
the miniscule pea in your pretty fingers.