Mothering Sunday

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.