Time as an SEC

I was listening to Sweet Thing, one of my favourite songs (Performed by The Waterboys as opposed to Van Morrison on this occasion) so some of the words in this poem are lifted from there. At the same time I was messaging with a friend who has a kid. I was suggesting we meet up but she couldn't, largely because of her kid. In reassuring her that I was fine with meeting up with her and the kid, I referred to myself as Uncle. I remembered walking on a country path on The Wirral in the north west of England with my "ex nephew", aka the nephew of my ex. She and I used to take care of him a lot and I had known him since he was very little. On this occasion I remember him being behind me, I suppose pottering and frittering and dawdling as kids are wont to do. Spontaneously he said my name preceded by the title he, I assume, had decided at that moment to bestow upon me: Uncle. Myself and my ex were quite touched. The Child in Time is a fascinating novel by Ian McEwan and I often think of it. I don't have a copy of it at the moment, must pick one up next time I'm in the UK... It charts a father's PTSD/ general state of mind following the snatching of his child and is a novel very concerned with Time as a subjective emotional concept, adding and interweaving physics. The way children experience time is different and, it could be argued, the way every human and other animal experiences time is different. I therefore like the ambivalence of "in his own time". We've all seen children in their own little worlds, playing, often alone, creating a whole inner world, far from adult clock. "More than a promise": Children are a very practical reminder, as opposed to something as abstract as the line from Sweet Thing: I will never grow so old again.
"Gardens all wet with rain". Reminds me of a fairy tale I liked as a child, involving some pauper, woodcutter, prince or whoever, who scaled the high walls of the secret garden to get at the mouth wateringly sweet lettuces. I think that garden really exists, in Calderstones Park in south Liverpool.

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Sweet Thing

Gardens all wet with rain, the child trailing behind,
a country trail far from his inner city circle
just digging it all not wondering why.

Could teach us a thing or two, us the containers
the carers, the modern life sharers,
he could, as he ambles in his own world.

A beautiful child in his own time
in his own time he dawdles
in his own world, he could let us in on the secret.

Left to his own devices, left to imagine and expand
he is our vow, he is more than a promise
and we dote, awaiting his next proclamation.