The midwife moves the tinny stethoscope
across your stomach, waiting for a sound
as frantic as a horse’s full gallop,

reminding me of childhood afternoons,
travelling the span of the longwave band,
the foreign tongues and vinyl crackle tunes,

the shipping news read by the RP man,
all flotsam in the bandwidth’s constant hiss.
There was no target for my wanderings then,

while now we sample no Moroccan hits,
we only have your belly’s groans and whirls
until we find our child’s racing heartbeat,

a tiny drum heard from another world.


1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. peter litton
    Nov 24, 2011 @ 01:09:19

    As usual, I like the change between line nine and ten. Sounds then and sounds now, yet linked in your memory and imagination.

    I also like the single line couplet at the end of the poem…often these are the best bit ‘cos they encapsulate an idea.


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