THE BIRTH

The waiting time is almost over. Expectation leaps.

Grasping branch, trunk or house-pole, a woman bends and bears down

over the birthing nest of soft fern or wool, sand, fur or moss:

“Be brave, my love ... Not long ... I see the head.

Reach down and touch.”

warm the receiving blanket, wind swaddling bands,

make the mother's strengthening broth.

Then comes that first strange animal cry in the night

like a lamb bleating on moorland,

a child's astonished salute to life.

With birthing a woman has opened her body and given.

Now she takes in, draws to herself,

prints on her being knowledge of this child distinct from all others.

These are the bonds that turn a woman to tiger to defend her child,

shield against danger, that tune her ear to the cry in the night

and bring loving arms to lift her baby to the milk-rich breast.

by Sheila Kitzinger