One seamless day

For oft I look at the clock to find

it tick tick ticking another time,

Luncheon dishes sitting statuesque

And half an hour before we dine?


This day, another, the one before

stitched, sewed,stretched into one seamless day.



Roll roll rolling like baby’s fabric ball

Not much bounce and few escapades

‘be it a surprise then

to find folded laundry found

For yet another washing round?


Climb into bed and climb right out

An hour thin, a minute stout

Sportingly I say , ” I ‘d sleep with shoes on today”

Time does bend, I’ll make do and mend

Wonder then

How many things I start with

And never finish anyth?



For oft I look at the clock to find

This moment that is now

turn threadbare, antique

Edges distressed





Hungry games

Dot- dot -DOT, dot -a-dot-dot

The raindrops knock persistently on the window as if complaining of being too wet. I hear a slight affected cough , a whoosh of the comforter as a pair of little legs scuffle their way out and land on it with a thump. I don’t want to get up but I do and reason with a momentarily unreasonable child who after a drink of water, a kiss on his nose and lots of assurance later agrees to go back to sleep.


Murmuring under their breath, fall the raindrops as if in resignation to wetness being their natural state but not without a sporadic plink-a-plonk on the window as if in indignation. I try to remember a raindrop I once knew. Suspiciously stubborn, it stayed up long after the others had flown down in streams to meet the little puddle on the sill. I remember waiting (not so patiently) and then with my finger giving it a nudge ,causing it to splish, leaving behind a muddy cloud. I hear the child stir again, he wakes faster than my thought. He talks a lengthy length about his dream, gets promised a toy the next time we are at the shops. He sleeps. Through the rest of the night, maybe but probably not.


It is morning, the rain has stopped. I notice a profusion of tiny muddy impact craters on my kitchen window. I wonder how many of the raindrops had cloudy outlooks, the marks they left suggest confusion. I like confused company. I am only just starting to count how many and everyone in the house seems to wake up. I make some quick noises with the dishes and the spoons and the pots to remind myself I am in the kitchen. The naughty child is cranky. It is understandable. The naughty child has been up all night. The not so naughty child is cranky . It is understandable. Sleeping through a long rainy night wakes one ravenously hungry.


I rush with the cooking, the little ones eat bananas and go bananas while breakfast gets ready. In the few minutes I take to scramble eggs ,toast bread  warm apple muffins and make a mean hot chocolate the children have expressed so many overly expressive emotions . Every emotion, from silly piggy happiness complete with oinks and grunts to the one with a tear peeping out the corner of an eye, the one I like to call the look of exquisite suffering. Hungry games are food for thought.


It is a holiday. Daddy is at home too. We just got up, had breakfast and are back in bed, regardless. For a few minutes we are silly and lazy. We hear thunder and the children clap. This summer is gone, the lightening flashes in my mind. My heart goes pitter patter. I feel very much like a raindrop.