Winter Wombs
Winter babies are carried
in small wombs over stark ground,
they have eyes and mouths by now,
almost human paws.
The snuffle of small rodents
awakens more of the yet unborn,
they watch the world come to them,
blind whiskers uncurling.
Not all are born in Spring
not all tumble and play
in the green dray
nest or den,
many must too soon
pass away.
The yet to come
have see-through faces,
they have long soft nails
to scrabble over
tomorrow's hard killing fields.
Dawn, like a stripper,
takes off her black stockings,
arrives in white thighs;
she too is a working mother.
My own inner child
opens its ancient eyes,
calls out just once.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2023
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