Birth of a son

Now here's a poem rediscovered, which I haven't looked at since he was a babe in arms, thirty five years ago. Happy birthday, my dear boy.


ON THE BIRTH OF OWAIN JOHN 

Oh my son!
You have turned me
into a boundary
between my father
and the world to come.

What will you inherit from me?
For the first time,
my mortality has consequences 
close to the heart.

I am no more last of a line,
a name striving for recognition
in the shadow of my forebears.
Therefore I ask-
with greater seriousness
than ever before, 
as if it were a new question-
Who am I?

Yet I know, if I am honest,
that the answer I get
is not only likely to be
quite beyond me,
but also little more
than dawning light
upon your new day.

J.K.K  - 1.7.78