Baby’s Bedtime

baby doesn’t read much anymore
in the evenings
her eyes become too tired from the page
and an accumulated feeling
like staring into light too long
makes her rub to find more natural sensations

she was always baby to her brothers
and her father
at fifty eight and climbing it’s getting late
to start growing up now
when lines are etched into her features
and a rug has to keep winter knees in circulation

baby takes a cup of tea with a half of honey
just on bedtime
it seems a fitting way to mark the passing
of awake time into the hours of sleep
before the ascending weariness
of a footstep at a time up the stairs and to her room

the blanket is set on high to guarantee
warmth of bedding
it seems a little like a decadence
but who alive will know
and the comfort of a warm bed
is like mother’s touch recalled from long ago

in the darkness the upstairs room
is almost soundless
with nothing out of the ordinary to be heard
just the gentle rise of baby’s breath
as she settles into a steady sleep
to carry her past one day and on into the next


© Frank Prem, 2003

4 thoughts on “Baby’s Bedtime

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