Autumn Warming

it's warm. warmer than it should be
for the fading days of autumn. we are awash with yellow light
surprised by a new crop of white butterflies; having quite thought they were over, they are abounding again
we are finding dragonflies everywhere
and our spring visitors, the centipedes
are here again, two seasons out of their time.
our kitchen window spider spins a new web and grows fat on this unseasonal bounty

sun-bright, the children
are at play in the garden.
the 4-year-old in vest and shorts
the 1-year-old, toddling in blue jeans and strawberry-stained shirt

from my kitchen window I can see them
as I make cuts in the lamb in front of me
pressing rosemary, mint, garlic into crevices
to season the meat. the older one
is moving from citrus trees to herb bed
selecting windfall fruit and loose leaves
murmuring a story to herself, as she composes
a fairy stew.

the baby
(not-so-baby now)
has found a round little lime
jewel-green and fat with juice. she is carrying it
wobbling on her feet, occasionally sitting down in faint surprise
from garden bed to garden bed
running her fingers through the dirt, the leaf litter
and the blossoms, on their last gasp before the cold and quietness to come.
she brushes through the sheets hanging drying on the line
giggling as the cloth catches her and spins her around, raising
the lime to her lips for an exploratory taste.

the air
smells of late-opening roses
herbs, sharp citrus
cut grass
drying cloth. oh, good smells
warm smells.
warm, it is so warm
I cannot remember a late April like it, I say to the older child
as I come to sit on the doorstep
cup of tea in hand.

look, Mummy, she says,
shading her eyes to point skywards. there is a darkness there
a dark cloud coming.
Yes, I say, taking her hand
a storm is due, love.
soon, it'll come
we had best bring the washing in

Yes, says she, hugging my hand to her cheek, we need to move inner-side
it'll be cold soon.
I kiss her, lift the not-so-baby to my hip
and gently shut the door on the rain to come.

- Kathy, 22/4/10

Afloat

She looks into the mirror, steadily.
and sees
a tired face with weary, sleepy eyes,
etched in smudgelines of fatigue
accentuated with dark puffy pillows of swelling underneath.
a face acquiring a network of lines
a tracery of wear,
reflected also in the specks of darkness in the hazel irises
little inkblots of suffering,
each one
a tiny scar of illnesses weathered, injuries repaired

She sees thick, unruly hair, by nature dun-coloured but now
greying at the temples. henna can cover it, and often does
but not at this moment, now the silvering is visible
unchecked it will soon be a broad ribbon across her forehead.

She sees
a thick-bellied, heavy-hipped body
the weight of three births sitting stonily on her abdomen
the fine light marks of stretched skin casting long slim fingers around her belly
She sees heavy, rounded breasts, milk-bearing and full

She sees, still
that her fingers are long and delicate
tapering like those of the pianist that she never did become
musician's fingers, wasted on on a writer's body

She sees that she is aging. And not with great physical grace
she will be an unlovely crone, that is apparent now
she feels uneasy, regarding this body in the mirror, and
shifts from foot to foot, thinking.
This body
that will no longer tolerate the challenges it once overleapt easily.
The spine isn't right, now
and never will be, again, whispers a cool voice inside her head
like the damaged kidney. and the gut, it too.
Yes, she thinks, touching her hands to her face
there is no going back now. No rebirth for this vessel, I must sail it to the ends of the earth and life without ceasing

and she says, steadily, Please.
just that
Please, I want to be able to live my life
to mother my children
to help and to work and to care and not to falter
Please.
Carry me, I need you to.
I have no other ship to sail in.

And the hazel eyes regard her calmly in the mirror, shining
with unshed tears and unspoken fears
as she sighs and turns away
to try to sleep.

- 13/2/2010

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

Lastborn

Half a year ago, she arrived. the end of summer brought her
delivered from the cool impersonal hands of the surgeon, an indifferent stranger
to our arms.
her eyes so wide
bringing with them scraps of the bright cerulean sky
her eyes
fixing on us, her little mouth prim, a closed bud, her face
inscrutable. beautiful.
we welcomed her with delight, all of us together
a new cub for our pride
a new shout of defiance into the long dark
here we are! we endure
we grow strong

that first night, she and I alone
in the dim, cool hospital bed
I kept her in with me, tucked up in her bundle under my arm
close to the breast for suckling
my spine aching, tingling, fizzing, from the gone-wrong anasthetic
my belly ragged with blood and stitches
my heart dazed. overwhelmed with her
I examined her tapering fingers, one by one
her perfectly formed head, dusted with baby hair
her leg's folds of skin
I felt the tug of her newborn mouth on my breast
the slow and langorous flow of the thick firstmilk
I gazed on her and I knew her for mine
and I surrendered to visceral, irresistable love of her

At home
she fell easily into her allotted role in the family
the darling of the crowd
beloved of all beloveds
her curiosity apparent from early days, her serenity
in the multitudinous touches of sisters, parents, others
her smile, dawning at six weeks
an astonishment of joy, drawing all watchers
into her miasma of happiness.

The winter has brought movement, and conversation
"Ahhhh!" she says, in a seven-toned symphony
"Gsshhhh!"
and her chuckles, oh her laughter
a golden counterpoint to the gorgeous mirth of her two happy sisters
happy with a baby's unknowing, so entirely pure,
happy so very much. she
carries the warmth of her summerbirth in her

She
my lastborn child
my swansong baby
her eyes still so blue
so full of light
the light of ages in her
her soul so glorious
as she surges into spring
and greater knowing
and is, always and ever, my last answer to the eternal question
and a good answer. I am satisfied.

- Kathy, 22/8/09

Pregnant

Every day I grow rounder. I would say "fatter"
but that would not be right. I stay myself
and the moon of my abdomen rises. Every day
my passenger makes a greater showing
whispers replaced with taps
brushes with firm squeezes
I feel the roll of this tiny body-in-my-body as it turns, suspended in the living water
that, somehow, fills my womb. (I still find it astounding
that this should be so. that so many mechanisms
should come together to create a space for life to begin
within my body, mine.
I never thought of it as remarkable before these showings,
once, twice, now three times,
of generative force).

Every day that passes
The pregnancy of this pause grows deeper
the tiny becomes weightier, small organs begin
to fulfill their functions. Every day
and week and month
strengthening, fattening, preparing for the outerworld
which is not warm, or quiet, or safe
nor aquatic - the end of waterdancing

And I the vessel, and the participant
in this voyage from the seed to the cry
full and fuller with child
deep and deeper engrossed with the motion of the life to come
winding tendrils of my heart into these shakes and quakes
growing space in my mind for the love that's already seizing me
inexorably
as the child
this child
my child
grows, and is more, and prepares
to walk in the world of women and men.

- Kathy, 31/10/08

Emergence

(A poem on the occasion of my daughter's first haircut)

On Saturday her hair was cut. It had been coming for some time
her honey-shaded ringlets tangled, wild
down to the small of her back when wet
forest creature hair. and hair that hurt
snarls and knots too deep to extract
or not easily, anyway. only with time, patience
and tears, hers and ours
as she protested furiously the persistent tugs of the brush

Enough, we'd all decided, time for it to end
She most eager of us all
sitting up smiling in the barber's chair
her small chin resting on the smock
her graceful head relaxed into the hairdresser's hands
as the scissors cut away her curls
her dark sunshine tips
as the hair fell to the ground
my baby's baby hair, to be swept away quietly

and her face, emerging within its new soft brown bob
shaped and framed by the clinging tendrils of shining hair
suddenly, was not the face of a baby
but of a girlchild, knowing and mysterious
smiling into her own eyes in the mirror
looking upon the future there in her reflection

the only tears shed were mine. of course they were
as I collected a whisper of ringlet to put away in my box
and lifted down my daughter from her high perch
and kissed her somehow-older cheek
and sighed.

- Kathy, 4/08/08