December 08

Creation

I watch.

You, scrutinise your fingers
insects stretching, bending.

You mould reluctant clay
caress, cajole
work feverish for perfection.

Staccato, a squeal of joy
you make magic, without a wand.

Insects fidget, scuttle by
plunge in pots and palettes
mix myriad hues, swirl rainbows.

I see fingers and your future.

(First published in First Breath Poems on Pregnancy, Birth and Motherhood, November 2004)

“Beauty is my child’s face.”*

Is there a more perfect sight than the face of a beloved child? Is there a more perfect feeling than stroking the softness of their skin? Is there a more perfect smell than inhaling their sweet scent as you envelope them in a tight embrace? These are some of the intoxicating wonders of motherhood. How I love to dwell on my child’s exquisite features, but no matter how long or how intently I gaze, the image is always changing. It is the nature of childhood.

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