THE NEW CHILD

They grip the image in their young minds

like new moon’s silver,

and wish their childish wishes for her.

They try to set yesterday’s emptiness

against today’s fullness, and reflect

(as we all might): the World has worked a wonder.

Each mind’s grindstone strokes and strokes

her to a jewel, until  the light

from the finished facets glitters in their eyes.

They are dumfounded by it;

each head is a spinning top  -

the World swirling to the one colour  -  her colour.

Later, in the midnight hour,

cradles of bone nod her to sleep  -  and them.

concave

against the baby’s head:

the mother’s cheek