Earth to Avoca
life already lies to my son
and part of me aches to lift the drawbridge to it
post sentries against the shadows
already Trojan-horsing around inside the walls
just a tiny footfall down from grace.
he knows nothing of syringes (the burns ward forgotten)
nothing of the metallic scent of blood (just the odd split lip)
and murder is a squashed mozzie in the bathroom
in the house starring nightly in his bed
tomorrow we fly to Nebula XF 182
for him closer than Avoca Beach
the car a spaceship he expertly pilots
for him Babar the Elephant lives
Thomas the Tank Engine talks
and it’s only a matter of time
before a panda appears in the bamboo
“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.
* © from 'Being Mummy' by Anne‑marie Taplin, published April 2007