Standing in the ditch, waiting for his rally car to drive past.
The car number 46 passes, then 48 and 49.
Still no sign of the beast, he spent months putting together.
Lovingly adjusting every screw and bolt
and making sure the paintwork is perfect.
Your friends regard you nervously and say soothing things.
But you know the risks he takes when he hurtles down
Those narrow, fecund Irish country roads.
They drive you back to the rally base.
He's there with his head in his big hands.
Devastated that the radiator let him down when he was ahead.
He's in the delivery suite with you.
Your baby has been born but not easily.
Things hadn't turned out as they tell you in the books.
The dreadful hours forgotten as you see the baby's face.
Then the room spins and you know the wait is not over.
You turn to him and say, 'Go outside, no point seeing his.'
But he won't leave as you begin to see stars.
When you come too, he still there.
He says gently, as the doctors rush about you,
'I thought I'd be left with the baby and that you were dead.'
Time passes so quickly.
Waiting for the work-load to lessen.
For some days spent together.
The young child is a blessing.
But waiting's interminable....