Monday, 26 August 2013

This Is Your Home

When that mean girl digs her sceptre into your toe, 
come to me. I will kneel down, arms open,
a wish kiss given above red eyes.

When that man who spits when talking, yells, red faced 
because you have treaded on his territory. 
I will run, tissue in hand, to calm your tremble.  

I cannot always keep the bogie men at bay. 
Nor can I ensure the path you stray upon 
will be the one I have mapped. The safe one, 

the planned one,  the one your father and I quietly create.
Most likely, it will not be, and I will worry, quietly.
About what may trip your step? And what waits for you
across the bridge or under it?

I dress you in armour, sword in hand and
heart in chest. I teach you how to climb the stairs
And hold tight to the rail, but if you stumble. 

Please remember, this is your home, little one.
A place to take refuge, or just visit
when in need of a cup of tea and a chat. 

I will sit here, chair at window, ready to greet your return. 
I will prepare a snack for you, as I do today, 
because you may be hungry. 

You will no longer use crayons to hint
about your day, your world. 
And we will have to find another way.
But we will.

I will always laugh at your jokes
and tell you you're lovely, even if
you're hair is a mess and knees scraped. 

I love you. I am your safe place.

They say I cannot wrap you in cotton wool, 
but here I sit with needles to hand.