Late Comer

Written by: CAROL ROBINSON

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