The Mocking Bird

On the way home from Hospital He wrapped his hand around her finger, And slept upon her scarred flesh crib. Sunlight shone upon their faces Taking away his jaundice for a moment. His eyes turreted Staring deep and blind right in to her eyes, And smiled at her Knowing she was kinship, From the smell and dry fragments of her soul Which helped him return back to his world. Fresh paint permeated from the nursery, And sunset refracted Through a bay of stained leaded diamonds Turning the cot mosaic As she laid him to sleep Kissing his furrowed bur Singing to her silent Angel, Pledging him a Mocking Bird In whispers of harmonic love. A Mother and Baby slept foetal Their fingers clasped gripping cotton In the morning she awoke Her breasts hungry to feed him She unfastened her nightdress Found him asleep Curled like a root around a tree Colder than the dread of reality. Years pass like lifetimes And still even now Violent ripples flow through her nipples Feeling his grip He never lets go The smell of fresh paint Lingers as it flakes In a nursery where the sunsets A child will never rise, School will not be started But her love never dies.