Morning Song

"Love set you going like a fat gold watch."
Sylvia Plath

Born at home, 6.00 a.m – back in the swinging
sixties; flower-power, and Mary Quant...
England, winning The World Cup, she was;

the midwife, more intent on discussing
transfer fees with Dad, than managing
my contractions;

the need to know the date of the next game
at Craven Cottage took precedence over mine
for gas and air.

Then she burst into the room – noisily
making her presence felt, before
she’d even seen the light of day.

On a soft-shuttered, August morning
the cord – cut, but a bond firmly tied, to grow
ever tighter with time.

A fist, like a small, pink shell, curled
inside mine...so very small, about
the size I felt then;

all at sea, and breathlessly treading water
in this new world I found myself in...
this parenting thing’.

The stutter of her eyelids –
moths’ kisses on my cheek...as,
frowning, and snuffling, she fought
to suckle at my breast.

Amazing how it took nine long months,
and, all-but, two days hard labour,
to give her life,

yet, a first, snatched breath – eyes,
a silence of blue light, turned
an erstwhile, cotton-candy kid
into a mother.