Carol Ann Duffy — A Childs Sleep

I stood at the edge of my child's sleep hearing her breathe; although I could not enter there, I could not leave. Her sleep was a small wood, perfumed with flowers; dark, peaceful, sacred, acred in hours. And she was the spirit that lives in the heart of such woods; without time, without history, wordlessly good. I spoke her name, a pebble dropped in the still night, and saw her stir, both open palms cupping their soft light; then went to the window. The greater dark outside the room gazed back, maternal, wise, with its face of moon.