When daylight prods into the travel cot
and baby girl alerts us to the fact,
I rise to lift her out without a thought
and place her down gently at the exact
mid point between my pillow and her Mum’s.
Sometimes we all agree a silent pact
to sleep another hour despite the sun…
and you can take your leave now, dearest reader,
these iambic confessionals are done
and I’m anxious to reinforce the border
between my family’s bubble and the world.
The ebb and flow of linked Terza Rima
continues elsewhere, endlessly unfurls—
the words that I lobbed in were only pebbles,
the flow was always there, as eternal
as rivers that vanish below ground level
to leave the jurisdiction of the ear.
Some of the world’s worst poems are immortal.
The verse endures, the poet disappears.