Late Comer
Spent and Battle Weary,
the exhausted figure trudges the well worn path
like the to-ings and fro-ings of some relentless seaside donkey.
Utterly defeated,she resumes her rhythmic rocking, almost robotic in its ministry.
No welcome here for this fretful form
Out of time
This usurper of liberty, predator of new found freedom,
like the parasitic mistletoe as it clings to the enduring oak
Consumes the spirit
Outflanked by convention, choice simply a misconception,
The woman capitulates before her adversary.
The final shades of moonlight fade from the sky.
The child, enveloped in the first vestiges of sleep,
Surrenders its hold.
The early morning sunlight precociously animates its shadowy dance;
and Fairies cavort upon this tiny form,
playground of elfins and pixies;
the elixir, the effervescence in champagne.
I brush the hair from the forehead of the sleeping child
My heart is swollen
No enigma here; only my daughter
Copyright © Carol Robinson | Year Posted 2007
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