A Message to a Child

So softly, like a warm light from a mother’s face,
the feet patter, pit against the creaky boards and open, telling home.
It seeks to betray you, little child, wanderer of all things mysterious
and good. You patter through the night on smooth, uncalloused heels,
not bruised by labour nor cut by the searing touch of a life gone by.

No, dear child, you see only the shadows by their difference from the light;
you taste only tears by their salt
and the feeling of some small thing you’ve not yet grown to understand.
As you wander-step carefully, like a mouse against the edge of my cupboard door,
I can hear you breathing.

Your heart makes its tiny rhythm, excited of unforeseeable round-corners
and what light might flit between doorways shut off to you.
You will learn, o’ child, and I will cry, for then you will have become me,
and the shadows no more will seem so different from the light.

The tears will seem less like salt, and the feeling more like home.

The heart will beat its slower pace, and you, o’ child, will be no more.
In your place, something learned, something firm, a name,
and you will listen for the children, for the patter of your own feet,
but none will come, and you will know you have grown.

Sincerely Yours,
Your Own
Steven Norris
April 2010