January 12th

This shadow, multiplying mother after mother,
is where my daughter labours
in her own time
her face a pale distance from mine.

She rocks, gripping my hand tight so the rings hurt,
And breathes below the world
in the seashell roar.
She turns to him, dipping her head
as she is taken
down
the rippling hours.

Now she kneels
obeying the deep imperative rhythm

I am ready with thin surgical gloves

A small face appears

Hangs there

For one immeasurable moment.

Unbelievable. Funny

and she swoops out – I catch her,
first to touch the tender blood-streaked body
in the whole of time
and pass her to her mother.

High above the sea, she cries in her soul voice,
the room sharpens in cut-glass January sunlight
and, for a moment, I watch the living waves.