Taps

The wean in his element, playing with the taps. No interest yet in the big seat. That, I guess, means big business, something that requires training on the job, work-duty. The taps are something else altogether, the biddable mouths of water-sprites who trickle or gush sweet melodies at the merest touch, capable of filling a whole sink (installing a wobbly mirror), splashing a whole t-shirt, a whole floor, wearable as deliciously cool/warm, elbow-length gloves. The concentrated joy is absolute, must not be turned off at any cost (certainly not for mere grown-up shouts). The diluvial is ALL. Let there be flood, so long as it's me doing the flooding, so long as it's me at the taps.

Funny though, he's not keen on swimming.