Your long fingers pluck and pick the air
as you conduct us to and fro,
bumping your pram wheels over the saddle
of the doorway and back in calming iambs.
We nearly have the knack of this, we think.
Beautiful tyrant, you yawn, stretch your mouth
to a moist diamond. It is sweet and needy
and trusting as a nestling's. Then your pink tongue
buds through, divining succour, presciently
tasting love with a certainty strong as tomorrow.
In a milky stupor, you recline, supine
along your mother's legs. Your eyelids
bat a little for wakefulness, but lose,
for you are tired and new and full
and your ma sways you softly, side to side,
in a timeless lyricless rhythmic lullaby.
A small deep tidal sigh, primeval
as creation, ripples through your perfect
little body and you doze, Rosa –
watched, admired, safe as days,
breathing light like the dawn.