|
A
CHILD WAKING
for
Undine
Unoccupied
by sleep the infant cries.
She
tries a mew until it’s a miaow
that
rises through the cot-rails, silent bars,
sharp-edged,
to where it’s recognised.
Like
two boarders, poised, upside down, mother
is
there, father; they take her up.
In
her cheek is pressed a whisper, which is wet.
Her
eyes look round; she hears articles hover.
The
clock slots into the moonlight on the sill.
The
night clouds in their usual aquarium
look
through black brittle trees. Nearer,
a nose
rests
among shadows; its temperature is nil.
Above
it a forehead exists in the known
dark
of father. Dark mother’s
lips
play
busily and subdue. As might subdue
a
homesick girl mere promise of going home.
She
is returned, tucked in. The bluey bits
of
parents are there, watching, and then not there.
She
wants to cry. And would.
Except that sleep
finds
just the space of darkness, and she fits.
Alan
Marshfield
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