Sunday Morning

Written during my late daughter’s lifetime :

SUNDAY MORNING

Shall we arise late this next Sunday morning

In the time-honoured way parents do?

Shall we lie snug and warm in our big double bed

Half-listening the sound of your hesitant tread

And the peep round the door of your golden-curled head

Before clambering in with us too?

Shall we go down to egg-dipped toast soldiers

Your small hand in mine down the stairs?

To a kitchen alive with your three-year-old patter,

To a garden a-song with the birds’ chirp and chatter,

In the lull before lawnmowers grumble and clatter

At the on-set of Sunday’s affairs?

I would it were so

But it can’t be, I know

For my darling knows nothing

of Sundays.

Mum will carry you downstairs as usual

In the small hours that are still part of night,

Knowing we face yet another long day

Of hoping the food that you’ve taken will stay

That you’ll grow that bit stronger, keep infection at bay,

In this wearying round of life’s fight.

For my darling’s not like other children,

Almost lost to us once without warning,

Cannot walk, cannot talk can’t our Treasure,

And Fate stole her sight for good measure,

Yet no-one will know greater pleasure

Than we, when she smiles, Sunday morning.