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