Ciara aged five and a bit

You gave your mother grief
long before you were born -
you pain, you pleasure; you.

Your birth traumatic, you were
so full-on that your mother said -
no more babies ever - as she
shuffled around in her dressing gown,
swallowing pills; still burdened
by your eleven-pound weight,
relentless screaming and
refusal to be parted from her,
even for a second. So conjoined
you were that when she returned to work,
you were bereft, inconsolable
and stayed huddled by the door,
watching and waiting for her return.

Now at five you are stronger than me,
bigger than your big sister
and full of contradictions -
confident, impulsive, determined
yet kind and caring at times
and always utterly predictable
in your unpredictability.
So far school has failed to curb
your eccentricities though I suspect
your teacher is already counting
her new grey hairs, whilst your
gentle sibling hides in your shadow -
loving and loyal despite her frustration,
knowing in her wisdom you're worth it.

You were never a newborn,
way too old and clever for your age
and I can't quite get in your head,
but there are still those times,
though rarer now, when you
climb on my lap for a snuggle,
one hand absent-mindedly tracing
the lines on my face -
and out of the blue you say
`the moon is like a smile' -
now the smile is mine
as I breathe in the scent of your hair,
kiss your soft smooth skin
and wish you could stay here forever.