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.