Death is lurking somewhere in the maternity ward.
The nurslings scan the room and find a shadow
on the ceiling above their droning incubators,
what could be a shadow of black smoke.
They giggle, grab out, cry or curiously frozen,
look out wide eyed, staring in question, above the light.
Caught in neutral moment, cooing, caaing, ommm aware.
Like an angel chorus fresh alive with space and time.
Then, a live one comes in, a Mother of Sunday,
serenely calm in sleeping gown. Warm with affection,
She lifts one baby, her baby, a boy, swaddled in white.
Mother and Son walk into a corridor of nightingales,
make their way, a pair in pact, to the family room.
4 comments:
No great wise words of wisdom here. I did like it but it took me several reads to appreciate what was going on. I started off with a false premise - my fault, not yours - and I was treating this as a science fiction piece. It's quite good.
I think you make an interesting point about how to read this several times. Despite your sci-fi mistake, i think this takes a while to click as an image and a sentiment.
always appreciate your reading eyes.
Apart from the shadow on the ceiling, it brought back images, thoughts and feelings from the birth of our first child. Thanks for that.
Dave, I think the shadow on the ceiling, is the last thing a new Father/Mother would ever consider, but it remains there nonetheless.
Thanks for reading.
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