This is by a lovely poet Michael Laskey - he was the 'at home' parent to his children while his wife went to work as a GP. I love the image of talking under the blanket 'cave' which is what my son does so often under duvet's etc And the silence in the house and someone else speaking his full name - how strange that sounds. Out of the warm primordial cave of our conversations, Jack's gone. No more chit-chat under the blankets pegged over chairs and nipped in drawers. Throughout his first five years an ear always open, at worst ajar, I catch myself still listening out for sounds of him in the sensible house where nothing stirs but the washing machine which clicks and churns. I'm loosening his arms clasped round my neck, detaching myself from his soft protracted kiss goodbye. Good boy, diminishing down the long corridors into the huge unknown assembly hall, each word strange, even his name on Miss Cracknell's tongue.