
Of dreams
Nurtured
but not yet realised,
For the loved child
whose wings
were seized
Mysteriously
When more determination and assessments,
Speechies, physios and occ therapy
are not enough,
Fair child has stopped,
Regresses, slowly progresses
When there is finger-pointing
By those in authority,
When many hoped-for milestones
Have a recurring ‘not good enough’ theme
Parental love is magnified,
Torched,
Endlessly yearns,
It reclaims
Resurfaces, begging,
Where can my child and I dance
Happy orbital dreams!
beyond developmental trajectories?
I deflect ignorant stares,
Nurse my pride with emergency care
I predict nothing, mercifully,
Hear the trumpets heralding each new day,
Pick up the bucket wistfully,
I go and collect the honey.
“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