Since I wrote this poem at least half a decade ago, Chloe has already left the pink-trimmed cot well behind. ('Cot' is what we Irish, as well as the English, call a crib.) My old poetry is not very cheerful. I spent most of my twenties moping.
The TV said that this year’s favourite name
For girls is Chloe. Just why it was plucked
From its archaic mothballs, who can say?
Somehow, those syllables ring out today
In pleasing tones. Now Chloe slumbers, tucked
In a pink-trimmed cot. But soon will come to fame
Some teenage girl behind a microphone
Who’ll need no surname; Chloe tops the charts.
Then pre-pubescent girls will hear all good
In those lights sounds, all dreams of womanhood.
A few months on, and Chloe will sprain hearts.
Shy, lanky boys will solemnly intone
Her name in empty rooms. Old madrigals
Will thrill again, but not for very long.
Soon Chloe scans a resumé and asks
Tense graduates about high-pressured tasks.
And soon, a grey-haired Chloe sings a song
That holds her name, unheard, as evening falls.