A Caelo Usque Ad Centrum

The old year is dying. outside
clouds gather as the storm builds
the thunder low, growling like a distant predator
the lightning spitting ice across the sky. the dogs
are barking, insistent
thunder and firecrackers conspiring to unnerve them
the rumble of the faraway hunter, the sharp whining pop of the skylighters

two girls are awake. they are listening to the sounds
and restless in the stuffy heat of their bedroom.
Tell me a story, says one, her hand brushing her face
as the other wraps her braid around her finger, and nods.
A story about what? What do you want to hear about? says the mother
curling up on the foot on one bed
her eyes tired.
Scooby Doo! No, Tweety Bird! No, superheroes! No, Mummy, I want a story about you...
Yes. The secondborn agrees, nodding her heart-shaped face vigorously.
We want to know about you, Mummy. When you were young, like us.

Well, then. When I was young like you ...
I had another brother, you know. Two brothers I had.
I remember a New Year's Eve, I must have been 7 or 8 -
and the story emerges
teased out slowly
retrieved from long-term storage
the dust blown off it as the words unfurl
a sepia memory, this one
as much pictures as words
freeze-frame images, bright as paint
of a New Year's picnic under the stars
of home-grown fireworks dancing in pink, orange, green
of lemonade and pears, redolent with summer, juicy and fresh and huge
of a little brother who was not supposed to ever be able to laugh
chuckling enormously at a pear-wet chin and a sister pulling faces

the two small girls are sleepy now, relaxed
ready to bid the year farewell and slip the moorings, to slide out to the nightsea
Mummy did he ever laugh again? - from the younger
as she pensively strokes her toy cat
worn thin from many passes of her fingers

No, sighs the mother, kissing her, I don't remember that he did, really
but now it's time for sleeping, baby
I love you so
when you wake it'll be a whole new year!

The storm is rising, outside. But we are inside, and safe
The old year is dying. Bring birth to the new
Our arms are wide to catch it
Every year a benediction
Every new year we are vouchsafed
Every one.

- Kathy, 31/12/09

Sandmother

The mother sits on the green leather rocking chair
the baby's head heavy in the crook of her arm
and feels a poem beginning to grow.

she glances down
sees the fluttering eyelids of the almost-sleeping child nestled into her
her scalp dotted with beads of moisture (the night is warm)
her perfect china-doll mouth quivering, half-suckling the air
a bodily memory of the long, langorous feed that's newly done.

in the room next door, she can hear
faintly, but perceptibly,
the high, sweet voice of the middle child, singing "We wish you a merry Christmas / And a haaaaa-peee New Year..."
over and over in a loop
the way young children do. she smiles
hearing the eldest child shushing her sister
but eventually joining her in song
the two of them out of time and out of tune
the way young children are

the mother shifts her weight, restoring life to a deadened foot
she hears
the dogs begin to bark outside, as the birds
begin their final manic chirruping
the day is ending! ending!
time for nesting
the sun has gone

the baby in her arms sighs, and moves a hand with intricate slowness
in restful luxury across the mother's lips
in her dreaming breath the mother scents the poem again
in the smell of night and milk

carefully, she lays the baby to rest in bed, moving silently from the room
to visit the elder children, curled like kittens
amidst their bright blankets. the eldest
has lost a long-precarious tooth tonight
now she relates her plans for the bounty that the fairy will bring
arm curled around the mother's neck
eyes sleepy. the middle
her face framed with damp curls
is almost asleep. all she wants
is to have her cheek stroked
in the way the mother knows
the tip of the forefinger, barely feathering the surface
opening the door to the night

the mother stays awhile. stroking, talking softly
the poem gathering voice in her mind's ear
as the children begin their journey to morning

and she thinks of her own mother
smoothing the path to the door of sleep
when she was as small as these
and how she felt then
like she was inside an impervious boat
safely and gently being carried into deep water
protected and surrounded and treasured

and the mother thinks, as she looks down at the long brown braid of the eldest, as she strokes the middle's cheek -
sleep sweet my babies
my beloved babies
I will it so.

and it is.

- Kathy, 19/12/09