This frail, dependent endophyte engages
with my eyes in hesitation’s insight
as I ask her soul: “What is your story,
O child who sojourns from beyond the Sun?”
Then she locks her trusting vision cleanly
(for I have seen no dirt or tarnish there)
upon the centre of my pupils with
that heady mixture of naivety
and wisdom only children here can know
and speaks with wordless laughter mingled with
the swagger of a womb survivor’s ease:
“I have returned to play my walk-on part
within this dream-play specially made for me”.
At which I saw her mother’s tears fall to
the earth to play their part in nature’s game
of come and go and ebb and flow in time.
For though she fed this girl-child from her breast,
she also saw the last page of the play
and, despite her grudging heart acceptance,
it still was like a dagger in her chest.
To bring a part of you into this realm
and know she will one day no more be here,
would any mother’s ardour overwhelm.
Therefore, the only way for mother’s grief
to be annulled and thus, in love, made whole,
is not to dwell upon the passing charm
which shows itself alone in outward form,
but see the endless being hid behind
the smiles, the tears, the theatre’s cause: Her soul.
© Alan Morrison, 2018