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I have this faded image, In my memory, Of Mum, And Sylvia, and me, Sitting in the windows light, Late afternoon, early night, Quiet and warm, Smell of clean clothes, Sight of Mothers round form Nudged by sisters searching nose. No noise from outside world As infants torque is curled, And clutching, flexing: fingers Reach for touch that lingers. The lapping sound of feeding Stutters slower, longer, Baby hands grow limp, Indrawn breath, deeper, stronger. This silent room Protective womb. While cradling arm safely keeps This sleeping bundle of love, Mums free hand reaches out And caresses my head from above. |