Archive of Learning

Writing

Arts

Academia

Poetry

Baby Blues

Tick...Tock....goes the clock

A stifling humid afternoon,
Made worst still by the heavy air,
A radio emitted muffled voices,
Drowned out by the shrieks of children,
And the scream of boiling kettle.

She plodded steadily to the kitchen,
Removed the kettle from the stove,
Poured scalding water into the flask,
Reached for the feeding bottle,
Scooped a measure of formula.
Mixed hot water to the powder.

The phone loudly beeped,
“Honey, I’ll be late again,”
“Just feed yourself and the kids.”
She said not a word but hung up,
Put the phone down silently, meditatively;
Been married they had for 5 years,
With children two and five,
And an infant of two moons,
But hardly had they spoken much,
And when they last did relate,
The wee child was conceived,
Herself still aged a score and five.

Vigorously was the bottle shaken,
Contemplatively were the steps taken,
Towards the room where lay the cot,
Of the wee child crying for his fill.
She carried him and cooed,
Gently thrusting the bib to his lips,
Milk that the teary child hungrily downed,
For he had not anything since daybreak,

Hunger assuaged he laid content
She burped and wiped him clean,
And changed him to his garments crisp,
The sweet child lies content,
Gurgling happily to his mommy, then slept,
Unwary of the soft pillow over his head,
That clamped down HARD........VENGEFULLY,
CRUSHING his curls and wee skull,

A minute, two minutes passed;
She lifted the ruffled pillow,
She stared unmoving at the Angel of Death;
Hovering over the cherub, who lies stiff beneath HIM.

Stillness

Chime......Chime....goes the clock.

• home
• about this site
• submit news, links or articles
• search
• sign/view guestbook
• email