On Looking At The Beginning Of A Lifetime
All night, a growing sound
which opens the door
to allow a body through.
The day you were born
a mist rose from the river.
Seven swans flew over the bridge
their wings sounding damp air.
How can I write for you?
My heart is rapt, listening
to your soft breath.
We are still coming to ground.
poem and photo Rose Cook
(poem from Taking Flight by Rose Cook, pub Oversteps Books 2009)
Rose Cook 