One Day

 
Brick

The six am soft-light catches my eyelids,
through blinds I should have closed better,
I recoil, baby starts crying,
watch silently shadows of the cars outside,
hoping she'll sleep again, knowing she won't
sigh at my life, the need for shower, the reality of adulting
covered in drool and tendrils of her hair,
singing the lullabies of my fore-Mothers.
One tear rolls from eye to cheek,
a hunger building in my swollen, idle belly,
I pop Ivor the Engine on, sit and watch, she watches too,
as we exchange a frustration that we can't fathom.

Water

The six am soft-light catches a pool,
reflects the glass roof and up again creating heat,
dances over the bodies of proactive older women,
casts the shadows of the wings of their upper arms
traces the waves made by their feet in paddle -
across the tiles bedded in for many years
covered in footprints and tendrils of hair
as the echoing of chatter is overhead.
One other baby hops in from the edge,
growing skills from it's innocent frame,
and he watches my daughter, as she watches too,
exchanging an innocence that a speaker can't fathom.

Wood

The six am soft-light catches a pool,
reflects the canopy of Oak,
dances over the fallen late summer leaves,
casts the shadows of the wings of robins and tits
traces the decline to a gentle chasing
across rocks that have bedded in for many years
covered in moss and tendrils of ivy,
singing the notes of the water.
One robin hops from a field maple to a dead log,
growing fungi from it's deep, rotting belly,
and watches my daughter, as she watches too,
exchanging an innocence that a speaker can't fathom.