Voices
In the days when children
were seen and not heard
my words were mute
my voice, empty
unable to by-pass the invisible
(and arbitrary) line
that accompanied a shotgun glare
or a clip-around-the-ear.
My fingers have learnt
to speak for me.
My own children's self-esteem
appears bullet-proof
their words sure-fire.
They open their mouths
and hurl their voices out
into the world.
It seems there is no line
invisible or otherwise.
No one will shoot them down
with ease, least of all me.
“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