The First Six Weeks

The cotton pillow is smooth from lack of sleep,
the duvet, neat and crisp lies undisturbed,
its rumpled creases line my unmade face
instead; as hollow as the moon that clocks
each cradling step, each wheedling prayer, each breath
exhaled, exhausted by this ceaseless crying.

It hauls me from my dreams, this urgent crying,
a siren call I can’t ignore, though sleep
is what I need, I crave with every breath.
The heavy veil of morning is disturbed
by wails that override the ticking clock
that drags its weary hands across its face.

Another ragged shapeless day to face
weighed down by milk-filled mouths and fruitless crying;
shifting routines that mock the rigid clocks
which mark each hour: to wake, to work, to sleep.
Such strictures bleed, are fluid; time disturbed
distilled to splintered fragments, shattered breaths.  

You are my timepiece now. I count each breath,
each pulse, each heart-beat, gaze into your face
to trace the weeks’ slow passing. Nothing disturbs
this ebb and flow, these tidal storms of crying
that break on far-flung narrow shores of sleep.
My tick chimes to the tocking of your clock.

I dream sometimes of Dali’s melting clocks
and waxing moons, both yielding to this breath
of life, or kiss of death. Surrealist sleep.
A contrast to my own Picasso face,
all washed-out blues, gaunt cheeks and fractured crying.
Perspectives blurred. My sense of self disturbed.

Hush, hush. The baby’s napping. Do not disturb
her please. Creep round the house. Silence the clocks.
Stop time itself, stock still, just keep this crying
at bay. Lay her where I can hear her breathe
and watch the shadows dance across her face,
check she is safe. And then, perhaps, we'll sleep.

The crying stopped, the night lies undisturbed
ahead, a dream of sleep around the clock,
with just your breath upon my moonlit face.