One thing we do over and over is celebrate birthdays. The last day of NaPoWriMo coincides with the birthday of child No. 4.
Photo ©Daniel Vorndran / DXR
quiet and orderly, like your birth.
You were past term,
I strolled over the Seine to the maternity hospital,
last check up before the holiday,
hung over the parapet, watched the reflections of Notre Dame
And the swallows swooping.
It’s time, they said, though she hangs on like a limpet.
There’s nothing left to drink,
the sea she swam in is dry.
It was a day like today,
brisk cloud and brief sun,
but the swallows were already calling.
I called home, said I was staying, it was time.
It was the last days of the maternity hospital too,
luxury hotel now,
and its wide corridors and roof garden were just for us.
Chatting, placid, no hurry,
waiting for you to appear,
waiting for you to be prised from your rock.
I remember no pain,
just the calm voice of the midwife
and the swallows screeching
and the sun beaming in fits and starts.
Birthdays come round,
still placid and determined.
Still the temperament of a limpet on a rock.