There was a time of no babies.
We listened close for their arrival
Ears cocked to the wind
Or the breeze on a balmy day.
There was a time of no infants.
No mother and father days.
But the sun warmed my back and murmured
Hold tight. And we held tight together.
There was a time of no children.
But the rain slanted off the slate roof
To drench the grass and the flowers
That waited. And the birds sang hope.
There was a time of no daughters.
We leaned in against the snow muffled whispers
Sinking softy away under icy skies
Frost and frozen hopes waiting for the melt.
And the melt came. Came pouring
Four times over! Came tumbling
Into our open hearts. Came dancing
Holding hands into our astonished lives.
‘Mothering Sunday’ won honourable mention in our 2021 International Poetry Competition.
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