A poem for mothers

I’ve been packing up old clothes of Olive’s to re-home them and it struck me, once again, how quickly she is growing… talking a little now, and curious about everything. ‘Whassat?’ is the common refrain, as I explain for the umpteenth time it’s a dress or a pillow or a key.

My friend Sophie sent me this Kate Llewellyn poem recently, and it’s too true, and lovely, not to share:

You used to lean

on that cot rail

and wait

with the vigour of a flame

to leap into my arms

two feet tall and two years old

a sagging nappy

archless feet soft as cats’  tongues

and trodden underneath

a thick and clammy waterproof

warm from sleep

the sheet ruched at the end

toys heaped and confused

neglected as the dead

a duck stuck in the corner

I could see the basket of your ribs

your hands were opened

and all your bones and life

leapt up to mine.

*Shoes above by Embroidery Baby.