Many sunrises we meet on top of the volcano,
Me walking up a rough track,
You, son, biking a road on the other side.
From a small boy wrapped behind you
A wind-born howl, “Grand ma. Grand ma,”
Arcs across the crater bowl.
I greet the bike, your sweat-sweet face,
Remove his helmet, unwrap him from his seat,
Place him precisely, proudly, on the peak.
My sun worship ritual over for the day,
We three walk home down golden rays
And normal life resumes its tarnished ways.